The Mouse and the Spider
by I'm Over There
Summary: Jim Moriarty gets bored. Molly Hooper gets lonely. They're just two planets revolving around the brilliant sun that is Sherlock Holmes, drawn in by his gravity. And his light. But everybody needs distractions...
1. Adorable

**Hi! This is my first 'Sherlock' fanfiction. **

**Obviously, I'm American so I'll most likely make mistakes in British phrasing and the like. Sorry. Obviously, I'm also human, as well, and so will make the inevitable grammatical errors also. Sorry again. **

**T****his story's about Jim Moriarty and Molly Hooper and their 'relationship' (and by relationship I mean blatant manipulation of the latter by the former) and will follow the two from a bit before the third episode of the first season up until the third of the second (and perhaps even after if Moriarty managed to survive shooting himself in the head). **

**The first chapter is a bit more introspective than the rest'll be and takes ****place before 'The Great Game'. **

**I hope you like it! **

**Please read and review! **

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><p><em>Adorable. <em>

The word described his brown puppy-dog eyes, his sheepish grin and his nervous laugh when he was embarrassed.

And he was almost always embarrassed, which was also _adorable._

Like the way he had told her, during their second coffee 'date', that he had had a crush on her for about two months already but he had been too shy to talk to her in person and it took him weeks to even gather enough courage to comment on her blog.

And that was just _adorable_, so _adorable_.

And here _adorable _was now, Jim from IT, sitting cross-legged on her couch watching 'Glee' _(of all things)_ while she stood in the kitchen waiting for the popcorn to pop.

Normally, if Molly had a man over she wouldn't recommend an American television show concerning covers of show tunes and teenage drama, since it wasn't the kind of thing a man usually enjoyed (they were supposed to like action movies and pornos, right?).

But then again, Molly didn't normally have men over.

And she had seen Jim's music-player and knew he would like it. He was just so sensitive, and so much of a music lover and a perceptive follower workplace drama (despite not actually participating in it) that she knew he would,_ just knew_ (and he did).

He was just so _adorable._

Molly turned away from where she had been watching Jim watching television. He had his back to her and against the sofa, he was fidgeting, tapping his fingers lightly in-tune to the music probably trying to keep himself from singing along embarrassing himself.

She looked back at the microwave, four more seconds to go; as soon as it read '00:01' she pressed the button to avoid the beep, opening the door.

Socks sliding across the tile and then padding onto the carpet of the living room floor, Molly approached the couch, without spilling a single popped corn kernel.

She had been silent (so as not to disturb by muffling the voices coming from the television's speakers) and so she didn't think Jim had noticed her coming.

He had.

And he turned around, looking back at her with those wide, _adorable _eyes and embarrassed, _adorable _smile.

It was almost like he was ashamed of everything he was doing, like he was a child feeling guilty knowing he was doing something wrong and getting away with it.

"I heard the popcorn stop popping." He explained, and then added with a nervous chuckle, "I'm hungry."

"Me too." Molly smiled, moving around the couch, sitting down next to him and handing him the bowl, "Here…whoa! Careful!"

Molly couldn't tell if it had been her clumsiness or Jim's but the bowl of popcorn had slipped from their hands, about a fourth of it spilling all over them and the sofa.

"Sorry!" Molly and Jim apologized at the same moment, looking down and then back at each other and then down again.

Really, Molly didn't think it was possible to find someone on this earth as awkward as she, someone on this earth who had as little a clue on how to be likeable (let alone _love_able), what to say and how not to embarrass one's self in every social situation possible.

But then she had met Jim.

And so now she was beginning to think that a person's social skills had a relationship inversely proportional to their intelligence (which definitely explained a certain handsome genius that Molly was trying hard not to think about while on a date with someone else).

Jim, after jumping a bit in shock at dropping the bowl, quickly started to pick up the fallen kernels up from his couch cushion and put them back into the bowl that was now positioned steadily on the coffee table between the sofa and television.

Molly began to do the same.

"Five second rule, right." She said, glancing up from her lap where the popcorn had fallen at Jim.

"Actually," he began, also looking up and meeting her eyes, "It's more like 45 seconds or longer even…I read it on the internet, some study with food dropped on the floor collecting germs…"

"Oh." Molly replied, Jim always knew all these odd facts, "That's interesting…well, good then. It's safe to eat. No germs."

She moved the corners of her mouth up, attempting what couldn't really be passed as a smile but could still be recognized as a valiant attempt at being polite.

"Yeah no germs." Jim agreed, and then his eyes widened when he realized that his words had mostly likely offended Molly and turned away from her. He hurriedly added, "Not that your couch is dirty or anything. I'm sure it's all clean. But I mean everything has germs and most of them are harmless anyway and you probably clean all the time…"

He trailed off like he usually did after a long ramble.

It really was _adorable._

Molly decided to laugh now, it was _nervous,_ like Jim's, but it was really the only way to kill the awkward silence quickly thickening between them.

Jim joined her and they laughed together and it was _adorable._

When it was quiet again…

(and not the awkward, heavy kind of quiet, the warm kind of quiet like the fading blush on the face of someone who has realized there was no need to be embarrassed, and so is now calming down and laughing about how silly it was)

… Molly and Jim both noticed that both of their hands were both reaching into the crevice between their respective sofa cushion to retrieve the same piece of popcorn at the same time.

They looked down at their fingers, which surprisingly did not pull away upon feeling other fingers against their skin, and then up at each other.

Molly giggled (nervously and embarrassedly, of course) but then stopped when she realized Jim wasn't laughing his usual nervous laugh.

His finger (a bit sweaty, but soft) was stroking hers.

Now it had become somewhat of staring contest to see who would be the first to look down and away from the other's eyes.

Molly thought it would be Jim first but she was wrong, she found herself unable to maintain the prolonged eye contact and her eyes turned towards the most justifiable excuse.

_The television._

'Glee' was still playing...but it was almost over.

She recognized the episode, it was one of her favorites. This was the one where the 'will-they-won't-they' characters would kiss for the first time.

_Why was she embarrassed? Why was she nervous? why couldn't she do this? _

Molly always asked herself these questions when she was still single of Valentine's Day or saw a happy couple sitting together on the train on the way to work or made a fool of herself in front of the date a friend had set her up with (or in front of that _unnameable consulting detective)._

Her answered used to be that it was her_ job._

Examining dead bodies for a living was a turn off for most men but Molly wasn't stupid. When she realized that revealing her occupation at first was deterring potential boyfriends she decided to be vague about 'working over at the hospital' and not tell the whole truth about her job until at least the fourth date.

However Molly's relationships still rarely reached the fourth date, despite her omissions.

But this was supposed to be_ different._

_Jim_ was supposed to be different.

He was just as shy and as awkward and as nerdy and she was, if not _more._

In fact his entire personality was like a male version of her own taken to the extreme. _She _was even the more well-adjusted of the two.

They had so much in common it really should have been _easy._

But it wasn't (because it never ever was for Molly,_ never)._

("_Just grab the first guy you can and hold on to him" _her younger (yes _younger,_ Molly was reduced to listening to unsolicited advice from her younger sister) had told her, _"that's why I did and that's why I'm happily married now. Just grab onto him and never let go.")_

_Well here Jim was,_ admittedly crushing on her for months now and ripe for the grabbing (and even if he was shy, Molly was sure he'd go along with anything if she initiated).

So why was this so_ difficult?_

Was it was because he was so nerdy and _feminine_ almost?

_No._

Molly was _not_ picky.

She knew she would never get the rugged, muscular jock, or the suave, slick-suited professional. _Hell,_ she couldn't even get the coffee-shop intellectuals or the workaholics who sat typing on their laptops in the corner of the subway car.

Was it because he was not _that person_ Molly was_ not_ going to think about?

No…

...well not _exactly._

Molly had just decided that _that unnameable person_ was a lost cause; a fascinating piece of antique jewelry behind glass at a museum that she could admire but never own or put on.

And so_ why? _

Molly didn't have time to think of the answer to her question.

She had been staring blankly at the television and didn't even notice that the show had reached the kiss scene that had satisfied a season's worth of anticipation, when the hand that hadn't been caressing (and that was now holding) her hand between the couch cushions, rested against her cheek and gently turned her face away from the television screen.

Molly stared at Jim's face that _was_ smiling-but not the _nervous, sheepish_ smile.

His mouth cocked to the side, like the head of a confused puppy (but for once he didn't look confused), and moved towards hers.

And the lips that were smiling (but not nervously or sheepishly) met hers.

There was no question now.

And so there was no need for an answer.

The questions of _'why was she embarrassed? why was she nervous? why couldn't she do this?'_ were gone now because now Molly was no longer embarrassed, or nervous and she was definitely doing this.

And the question of _'why was this so difficult?' _was also gone.

_Jim_ had been the one to make the move, rendering the question inapplicable to the situation.

But if Jim_ hadn't_ been the one to make the move, removing all the questions (temporarily) from Molly's mind, then Molly_ might_ have realized, that very night, the answer to why this was so difficult.

Jim was sensitive, sweet, caring; the ultimate 'nice guy' (that normally finished last-(which, in _some_ situations, wasn't always a_ bad_ thing)).

(So much so that he was _adorable_.)

Jim was perfect.

Not _perfect_ perfect (because no one ever was).

But for _her,_ he was_ perfect._

_Too_ perfect.

The answer that all of this, come all of a sudden into her lonely life, seemed_ too good to be true._

(Which, of course, it _was.)_

And it was getting excruciatingly difficult not to laugh at this fact...

...but Jim Moriarty had years of practice.

And despite these years of practice it never ceased to amaze him how incredibly stupid people were.

It was kind of _adorable_, actually.

Just like Molly.

The word described her so perfectly it was almost like she was t_rying._

(Which of course she must have been because when one is already so _adorably_ awkward what else could they do but play it up a bit?)

But that, in turn, would mean that Molly was _self-aware_ enough to realize this about herself, which she was because was always so embarrassed about the way she was, adding to her awkwardness which then added to her embarrassment and so on and so in an inescapable cycle that was just too damn _adorable_.

Pathetic, _yes_ (like her cautious attempts to wear a little make up or go out on dates) but _adorable_.

The kind of _adorable _that made Jim want to laugh and vomit and tingle, all at the same time, and all of which he refrained from doing while in Molly's presence.

Especially _now,_ since it would ruin the kiss.

Their _first_ kiss, just like the characters on the television show.

He had seen it more than few time because he had to find something to do while he was bored…and then he had found _Molly._

And _Sherlock._

Yes, the magnificent, brilliant, (and sexy) consulting detective Sherlock Holmes whom Jim had become quite taken with the day far before he had uncovered his little taxi driver game.

Jim brought Sherlock to the forefront of his forever buzzing mind whenever he was bored.

And yes right now Jim was bored.

Just like he was that night he was re-reading John Watson's blog about Sherlock and he just happened to notice the incessant commenting by one Molly Hooper, who just happened to have her own blog that just happened to more than obviously indicate her crush on the oblivious Sherlock Holmes.

_Adorable. _

But who was _Jim_ to judge?

If nothing else he and Molly _did_ have that in common.

Which was what interested Jim in her in the first place.

That she would be so kind and accommodating to anti-social know-it-all that_ everyone else_ treated coldly.

That she would have feelings for a seemingly _feelingless_ man who _everyone else_ felt nothing for but annoyance, resentment and grudging, jealous admiration.

Perhaps Molly had thought, at first (because to think it now she would have to be an above average idiot, rather than the completely normal idiot she was), that because Sherlock was so unpopular that she would have a chance with him.

How cute, how naïve, how _adorable_.

Molly wasn't stupid (she _did_ graduate medical school, after all (and she had done so on the merits of her own brain _(-not_ her back))) and so it continually caused Jim's (internal) laughter that she had yet to figure out the truth about her new 'boyfriend'.

Not the fact that Jim Moriarty was the world's only international 'consulting criminal', of course... but the fact that Jim from IT was a flaming homosexual with his legs dangling out of the closet, kicking the can-can dance.

Had Molly _really_ not noticed the quite fruity (ha, ha) cologne he had been wearing everyday? His tight shirts? The way he had very visibly and purposefully checked out every male he could see on the street, and flirted with at least three of them in the coffee shop?

Was she really just _that blind?_

_No,_ Jim didn't think so.

He refused to believe Molly was oblivious the same way he refused to believe that the young medical examiner who examined the often horrifically disfigured corpses of the often brutally murdered still thought that the nature of man was essentially _good_ as she had told him during a walk they had taken this evening on their third date (the first and second they had almost exclusively discussed the amazing exploits of Sherlock Holmes).

No one could have seen _so much_ and still been_ so stupid._

Then again, the idiots of the world were always, _always_ surprising Jim.

_("As always," Sherlock had told one of those idiots; his own personal idiot sidekick John Watson, "you see but you do not observe.")_

But Molly_ had_ observed.

She had seen Jim's playlist including numerous showtunes illegally downloaded during work hours on a work computer (Jim really did love his new part time job at the hospital although he preferred disco music to Broadway) and taken note.

That's why she had recommended 'Glee' for that night's entertainment.

So it wasn't like Molly didn't know or at least didn't have a _suspicion…_

No, it was more like she was _pretending._

_Pretending_ to have faith in human nature, _pretending_ to have faith in herself.

Pretending to have _hope._

Hope that a member of the opposite sex would find her attractive in both looks and personality enough to fall in love with her, hope that Sherlock would one day appreciate and pay attention to her, hope that Jim from IT wasn't gay and wasn't too good to be true.

Jim often toyed around with the idea of his own suicide but he knew _for a fact_ that if he was living Molly's boring, lonely, _hopeless_ life he would have_ already_ done it. _Years ago._

Hopelessness _broke_ people.

Human-beings could suffer through seemingly unimaginable tortures (seemingly because Jim had done _more_ than just 'imagined' them) if they had the hope that they would be rescued and things would_ get better._

A broken person rarely got fixed, it was so much easier to just throw it away and get new one.

Once a person's hope was gone, so was their will to live.

But still Molly lived on, with only the hope, contrary to all the evidence of her experience, and her complete awareness of its falsity.

It was _adorable._

And it was _fascinating. _So very _fascinating._

Getting to know her at first he could hardly believe it, really; how she refused to wallow in self-pity as so many other normal, educated, lonely city dwellers and lash out at the source of her depression and dysfunction (others, or herself; homicide or suicide).

Just what was this tiny, pitiful, _fascinating _mystery that was little Molly Hooper.

Jim wondered how to break someone who was already hopeless and only pretending to have any hope at all.

And as Jim kissed Molly, the hand that had stroked her stroked her fingers softly gliding its way up the side of her arm and then neck until both his hands cupped her face, he resolved to find out.

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><p><strong>I hope you liked the first chapter and if you did: <strong>

**Please review!**

**(It's my most powerful motivation to write). **

**Thanks!**


	2. Too Easy

**Well here's chapter two, hope you like it! Thanks for the reviews so far! **

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><p>Jim Moriarty stood in one of the employee bathrooms at St. Bartholomew's Hospital.<p>

Across from him, staring him intently in the eyes, was a very handsome man with dark brown hair wearing a tight gray v-neck.

_Jim from IT. _

Despite being only a reflection in the mirror he was indeed a completely different person (but still drop dead gorgeous if Jim did say so himself).

Jim watched himself in the mirror as he put the finishing touches to his outfit.

Resting on the sink ledge were his weapons of choice; tweezers, eyebrow pencil (he had stolen them from Molly's make-up bag) and a cellphone.

It vibrated.

Jim pulled up his underwear almost to his navel and twisted his hips slightly to make sure his pants rode low enough that the green elastic was more than obviously visible.

Then picked up his phone, checking the text he had just received.

_Hey, Jim! Sherlock's here if you want to stop by and meet him. _

_-Molly _

Jim Moriarty grinned down at the screen and then up at Jim from IT who grinned back.

_This was almost too easy!_

Jim from IT couldn't wait to finally meet the great Sherlock Holmes, he was _such _a big fan.

Jim Moriarty couldn't wait to finally meet the great Sherlock Holmes, he was _such _a big fan.

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><p>Molly quickly shoved her cellphone back into labcoat pocket, hoping Sherlock hadn't seen her texting.<p>

Not that he would care if he did.

She just didn't want Sherlock to deduce that she had purposefully called her boyfriend (yes her _boyfriend_; what an unusual, surprising word) over to the lab the moment he arrived.

Not that Sherlock would care about that either, he didn't tend to care about much- other than solving cases.

But maybe he would when he saw that Molly had a new _boyfriend. _

Perhaps because he would no longer be able to flirt with her to get free body parts for his experiments or after hours visits to the morgue.

Or maybe (just maybe) because he would be _jealous._

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><p>...or <em>not. <em>

Standing in the hallway, Molly sighed and ran her hands through her hair, trying to collect herself.

She couldn't believe she had screamed and stormed out like that.

She didn't like to seem like an angry, upset-able person (she didn't like to show people that they had _gotten to her_).

But of course there was no point in hiding her… _shock? disbelief? disappointment? frustration?_ (which one was it? all of them probably) from Sherlock anyway.

He knew.

He _always_ knew.

And he was always _right._

Of course Jim was gay, it all made sense. All the little details Molly hadn't seen… _or had chosen to ignore_ (which one was it? both of them probably) there was no disputing it.

_He had left Sherlock his number for god's sake! _

Shaking her head to herself, as she often found herself doing, Molly found that she was laughing.

The betrayal by Jim, learning that she had been played, the feeling stupid…none of it was as bad as Molly thought it should be.

(Well this wasn't the first time she had been fooled.)

She'd go back to be alone, lonely? She was _used to it. _

Jim from IT was gay. _Oh well. _The break-up is inevitable; she'd take care of that soon. _It wasn't so bad._

In a weird way this revelation was kind of a relief to Molly.

Now she didn't have to navigate the difficult map of actually participating in a relationship…

…and she didn't have to be so confused and indecisive about her feelings for Sherlock.

She liked him. _Yes, sadly._ She might have even been beginning to fall in love with him. _Okay._ She'd made her peace with that.

Oh Molly knew she'd never have him, but admiring him from an arm's length away was a comfortable, familiar kind of lonely.

This was _easier_ for her.

She could just keep crushing ( _crushing _because it was a juvenile and hopeless as a crush at this point)on Sherlock, keep trying to get him to like her, keep _failing,_ and live her normal routine in numb autopilot.

Jim from IT was just one of those temporary distractions life liked to tease her with.

(They were always fun while they lasted.)

Molly stopped herself before her laughter got loud enough for others (Sherlock) to overhear and checked her watch.

It was already afternoon.

Molly knew she had better hurry back down to the morgue and finish up her work for the day before it got too late.

She had to get home early so she could get ready.

After all, she did have a date with Jim tonight.

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><p>Passersby were oblivious to the hostage standing rigidly in the middle of a crowded sidewalk in downtown London for at least three hours now, sweating and shivering at the same time.<p>

The look on this man's frightened face should have made it apparent to anyone paying attention that the wire hanging from his coat could not be connected to anything _but _a bomb (but people weren't paying attention).

He held a mobile phone in one hand and a pager in the other, waiting desperately for either to buzz just because actually carrying out the instructions of the masked men and their employer with indeterminable motives that had captured and strapped explosives to him would be better than just _standing there_ shaking in anticipation.

_Would he live? Would he die? _

_Would this Sherlock Holmes person solve the crime that the person on the other end of the pager wanted him to? _

So many questions ran through the hostage's head and that was disregarding the most obvious _'Who is doing this? Why is he doing this? And most importantly why me?' _ones that he knew he would probably never receive the answers to.

The hostage watched the Londoners hurry about their lives in cars and in shoes, passing by him so quickly like the little ball on a spinning roulette table. Which ones would land on his number when the circle stopped spinning and get the _jackpot?_

He knew better than to make eye contact, then to try to _warn_ them.

Any wrong move and there would be _no point_.

He just stared past the people directly in front of him across the street to a streetlight that had just flickered on.

It was getting dark.

Sherlock Holmes didn't have much time left.

And neither did the hostage.

Leaning against this street light was the figure of a young man, operating what must have been a cellphone in one hand, only occasionally looking up from it and back and forth down the sidewalk he stood on as if he was checking for someone.

Once (and only once) did the young man look up from his phone to stare across the street, instead of to his left and right, directly at the hostage with bombs in his jacket.

The hostage couldn't see the young man's face clearly (he had absentmindedly left his glasses in his car while being _kidnapped_) but there was no apathy of a stranger's quick glance or even confusion at the hostage's strange actions.

In fact it almost looked to the hostage as if this other man staring at him was _smiling_…

But just as that thought had crossed the hostage's mind, the young man looked away, straightening up from his recline against the streetlamp, turning towards the approaching young woman, and slipping his phone into his pocket.

It began as a normal greeting and then transitioned into a normal conversation.

But when the young man leaned towards the young woman to kiss her she pulled away, stepping and leaning backwards.

He questioned her confusedly at first about this, shrugging as if he had no idea as to why she would react this way to him, but the young woman was having none of it.

She stood deliberately resolute, willing herself not to falter, lose her composure or stop eye contact.

Upon seeing this, the young man's behavior changed from feigned innocence to anger.

His body language and way of carrying himself shifted from as if he was apologizing for his very existence to as if he _knew_ that the world should be kissing his feet for simply standing on this earth.

He started towards her, pointing his finger appearing to repeat something over and over again until he was finally shouting it.

The young woman startled at his raised voice and inadvertently jumped back.

She attempted to turn and walk away but the young man pulled her back to face him, holding her arm so that she had no choice but to either look up into his eyes or down at his shoes.

She chose the shoes.

The young man found this funny, shaking his head, laughing and using a single finger under her chin to raise her head up so that they were again looking at each other.

He was still laughing, talking and laughing at her.

He reached into his pocket and the hostage thought he was getting his phone but instead he pulled out some sort of white cloth, offering it mockingly to the young woman.

She pushed it away calmly; her former emotions no longer visible on her blank face, as she freed herself from the young man's grasp and turned away from him.

Again, the young woman tried to walk away and the young man was going to let her.

He called something after her that she ignored as she continued to walk down the sidewalk back the way she had come.

Again, the young man shouted something after her and the young woman was going to ignore it.

But she didn't, _couldn't._

The young woman stopped in her tracked and turned around to see the young man almost _run_ at her.

They faced each other, only inches apart and the young man told her something that definitely was meant to threaten.

From the look on the young woman's face the hostage could tell she had something she so very much wanted to retort back to the young man, her mouth was even opening in preparation.

But before she could speak, the young man reached into his pocket, pulling out and checking his mobile phone, appearing to enjoy what he was reading.

Without even giving the young woman another look, the young man turned and strode away from her across the sidewalk.

The young woman watched him until he completely disappeared into the crowd.

When he was gone, she let out a heavy sigh and leaned against the streetlight, closing her eyes for just a moment.

And then she walked away as well, her pace steady and calm.

Now that the scene was over the hostage once again had to focus on his own problems instead of the problems of others.

He understood why people might not have noticed him as he stood on the street. However, the whole fight between the young man and woman; the hostage could not believe that passerbys just, well, _passed by_.

(But then again, just that morning he could not believe that he would be randomly abducted, attached to explosives and planted in the middle of downtown as motivation for some kind of famous police officer or something to solve a crime.)

Thankfully before he could further dwell on his imminent danger the pager in his hand shook and the hostage knew it was time to make another phone call.

* * *

><p>"What's wrong, Molly?"<p>

"Jim. I know. I know you're gay."

"…._What?_"

"It's okay. I'm not mad, really, it's alright."

"Molly what are you talking about?"

"If you're gay it's alright. That's not why I'm mad. I'm not even mad, really. I'm just…I just wish you wouldn't _lie_ to me…"

"I'm not gay! That's crazy! Come on, Molly_, last night_? Why would you think that?"

"Stop it, just stop. Stop lying. I'm tired of being lied to…"

"I'm not lying and I'm not gay! I swear! Why are you saying this? Who told you I was gay?"

"Why does it matter? I _know_."

"Who told you?"

"Look, Jim it's over so you—"

"_WHO. TOLD. YOU." _

"…It was Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes! My god, Jim, you were in the _room _when he said it! It was the first thing he said when he saw you! You think I wouldn't believe him, you know what he can do! You know he's always right, you said you were a fan! You think I'm_ stupid_, Jim…well, yes you probably _do_…why else would you have done this to me?…why am I even…?"

"Not so fast. You don't really think you're going to walk away from_ me_, like that, do you?"

"What…! Let go of me! Why are you acting like this? _Christ,_ it was all a lie, wasn't it, you're whole personality even…_I really am so stupid_…"

"Yes, Molly, yes you _really _are…"

"At least I didn't lie—"

"Oh _no_! I _lied_! I'm a _liar_! I _lied _to you…but not nearly as much as you lie to _yourself_! I mean it was all _so obvious_, really, me being a _queer _and all that. I did it on purpose, you know…it was just easier for you if you just pretended not to_ see_. And the way I _see_ it, Molly, you're going to have to either stop lying to yourself and accept the fact that no one's ever going to love you…or get it over with already and kill yourself! You're choice. But you can't go on living like this, _dear_."

"I—"

"Look at me, Molly_. What? _Is the little baby going to _cry _now? Does Molly need a _hanky_?... You can walk away from me now but you can't walk away from the _truth_…It's your shadow, Molly darling, it's going to _follow _you…"

"You don't have to be so dramatic about it. Lies or not, I've been living this way my whole life. It's _easy_. And I could go on forever like this, too…I probably will."

"….No you won't. No. you. _won't_. I am going to _personally_ make _sure_ that doesn't happen. I promise you…"

"…-"

"Excuse me…Oooh, finally!...Sorry, Molly, but it looks like I'm going to have to cancel our date tonight…I've got something _better_ to do!"

* * *

><p><strong>Obviously lol you know who the 'young man' and 'young woman' were. The dialogue below that section matches up to their conversation unheard by the hostage. <strong>

** Please review!**


	3. White Labcoat

**Third chapter! **

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><p>It was the middle of the night.<p>

No.

It was early morning.

2:36 AM according to the digital clock glowing on Molly's nightstand.

She reached past it to the lamp and it took several blinks and seconds for her eyes to adjust to the light.

Molly sat up in bed.

The knock came again, polite but pounding and she realized what had awoken her.

Molly pulled the covers off and pulled herself out of bed.

Because she was wearing only small pajamas, she grabbed the closest covering to put on and give herself her usual modesty before answering the door.

It was her labcoat.

Molly buttoned it absent-mindedly while she crossed her bedroom and hurried down the hall so her hands had something to do until they undid the locks and pulled open the door.

* * *

><p>Molly pulled open the door.<p>

She had just rushed out of the bathroom where she had been quickly applying her make up until she got the text.

_I'm here :) _

_-Jim_

"Hey, Jim!" she greeted and smiled, trying not to look as if she had just been getting ready but also making sure she didn't look like she had been waiting idly for hours anticipating his arrival.

"Hi, Molly. I know I'm early, I'm sorry." Jim from IT grinned, sheepishly, looking down at his shoes before meeting her eyes.

He shrugged and then smiled sheepishly again.

They both stood, on opposite sides of the door, looking at each other and not looking at each other.

It was a bit like a mirror.

Jim from IT laughed nervously and Molly matched it.

Suddenly she realized what she had done wrong this time and quickly spoke to remedy it.

"Well come in, then!" she invited, stepping aside to allow his passage into her apartment.

Jim smiled and stepped past Molly over the threshold into her home.

* * *

><p>"May we come in?" Lestrade had said.<p>

Molly had nodded, not speaking just yet, knowing that if the police were to visit _her_ at this hour then whatever it was they wanted to discuss must be important.

Now Lestrade and Donavan were standing at the kitchen counter dividing her kitchen from her living room, watching her as she searched her fridge for a beverage she could serve them.

"…I've…um…well I've got some juice…" Molly's voice called from the refrigerator her head was inside.

"Really it's alright." Lestrade told her, "We don't need anything, just to talk to you."

Molly straightened herself up, closed the fridge and turned around to stand across from where the two detectives stood at the counter, their files placed carefully upon it.

"You sure…?" she asked, maybe she was stalling.

"Yes." Lestrade affirmed and then added, "…please, sit down."

"I'll stand…" Molly said, looking him in the eyes, her forehead furrowed nervously.

There was only one stool as Molly rarely had company and no one dared to be the one to occupy it.

"We have some questions we need you to answer-" Donovan began but was interrupted by Lestrade.

"No. First…first we need to tell her…in case she doesn't _know_." He decided.

"…know what?" Molly asked tentatively, as if she didn't want to know what she didn't know.

"Um…well…."Lestrade began, trying to find away to phrase what he was about to say, "As you know there have been a series of attempted attacks around the city this past week, as well as an actual explosion with casualties…"

"The apartment building. I know." Molly stated, "Twelve of them. Eleven corpses…I started the exams on the first two this afternoon…"

* * *

><p>Molly was about to go on break.<p>

In the process of shedding her labcoat as she was passing through the hospital waiting room on her way outside, the hanging television caught her eye.

She stood still, like many others around her, and watched the wreckage of the smoking building on the screen.

Molly sighed and turned around, pulling back on her labcoat and hurrying back towards the morgue.

This meant she would be having some new customers come in soon.

It also meant Sherlock Holmes had been too late.

* * *

><p>"Look, Ms. Hooper, I'm going to be straight with you on this because it's very late, I'm tired and we need answers." Donovan cut in, "Your boyfriend-"<p>

"James…or, well, Jim-"Lestrade clarified.

"Jim from the IT department at Bart's?" Molly asked quickly, "He's _not _my boyfriend."

"That's right." Donovan agreed, "He's a_ criminal_. He's behind all the kidnappings and bombing attempts…"

"What?" Molly exclaimed.

She was glad she hadn't gotten any drinks from the fridges as she was sure she would have spilled them or spit some out.

Either way she would have embarrassed herself and stained her white labcoat.

"Jim Moriarty." Lestrade explained, "He's the one who's been strapping bombs to people, leaving clues all over London for Sherlock to solve."

"He's the one obsessed with the _freak_." Donovan said.

* * *

><p>"Um, well, Molly there's something I have to admit…"<p>

Jim from IT glanced out the window and then down at the empty styrofoam coffee cup he was tapping at restlessly.

"What is it?" Molly asked him from the other side of the small, quiet table in the corner of the coffee shop.

Independent, because Jim didn't like chains, and a few blocks away from the hospital.

"When I started reading your blog I became a bit…._obsessed_ with you…" Jim from IT started, watching his own fingers move, "I know, stupid right. I'm sorry, I just couldn't help it. Being the computer geek I am…I just, well you know, I just took a look at your internet browsing history and…"

"You can do that?" Molly asked, surprised, offended and impressed all at the same time.

It caused her to look up at him.

"Yeah, course I can, it's easy really…"Jim from IT blushed, chuckling, "…well, to me anyway. But like I said, I am a technology freak…"

He looked up at her at that point.

It caused her to take a sip from her cup, although it was already empty.

They had been sitting here for almost forty-five minutes.

"Well what did you see, Jim…?" Molly asked cautiously, wondering if Jim from IT had hacked her work computer or her laptop and just what he had found.

She tried to sound aloof, though, in her question.

"Oh, nothing much, really." Jim from IT shrugged, "It was just your computer at Bart's, it's the only one I've got access to, up in IT. Don't worry."

He attempted a wink and then laughed.

Molly tried not to look relieved.

"Oh." She smiled.

"I get bored, work gets boring, _life_ gets boring …" Jim continued, "I need something to waste away the time…so I looked up your blog and then your browsing history and all that. I saw that you visited that blog by that doctor about Sherlock Holmes..._quite a lot actually._"

"Yes, well, he's a friend, Sherlock is…I guess." Molly said.

Although she didn't really believe her words she suspected Jim from IT would be gullible enough to.

It beat explaining her unrequited crush on the consulting detective.

"You're his _friend?_" Jim from IT inquired, "You _know_ him_?_"

"He comes around the morgue once and a while," Molly explained, "to, you know, take a look at the bodies and stuff. He always catches the things I miss…he's so…well he's-"

"Brilliant." Jim stated, "A genius."

"Yes." Molly nodded.

"I know." Jim confirmed, "Truth is I'm a big fan."

"You are? So am I…" Molly replied, not so sure that she liked that her new _romantic interest_ was interested in her old, apathetic one, "I guess you could say I'm a tad bit obsessed…"

"I know." Jim from IT repeated, and then chuckled, "Browsing history, remember?"

"Oh yeah." Molly blushed, laughing a little.

"But you're more than just a _fan_, you actually _know_ him." Jim added, "…do you—do you think I could _meet _him? Do you think you could, you know, _introduce _me…?

Molly took another drink of her long cold, long gone coffee.

It gave her time to think.

"Yeah, I think I could." She said finally, smiling, "Next time he drops by, I'll text you."

"Thanks, Molly! Thank you so much!" Jim grinned, "You have _no_ idea how much this means to me!"

* * *

><p>Molly was in shock.<p>

How could this be possible?

Jim from IT, the crazed criminal mastermind chasing after Sherlock?

The shy, nervous, nerdy, _gay _Jim from IT?

There was no way.

But then Molly remembered the _break-up_.

Jim had gotten so angry and it was so _weird_; shouting, mocking and openly threatening her on the street in front of anyone passing by.

Jim from IT being Jim Moriarty the criminal would explain his strange, drastic shift in personality.

And the reason he was interested in her in the first place, _to get close to Sherlock. _

Other than _"What?"_ Molly could find no words to say and so the room sat quiet, Lestrade and Donovan letting the information sink in until Molly was fully submerged in the realization of the truth and able to speak.

Before that could occur, something broke the silence.

A long meow.

Suddenly, Toby, Molly's cat who was supposed to be sleeping soundly in her bathroom sink, was up on the counter.

He meowed again.

"Oh!" Molly exclaimed, "Toby, what are you doing up here!"

Her cat had pulled her out of her thoughts and back into the current moment where he wanted to be petted and possibly fed.

"You have a cat." Lestrade commented, smiling a little, hoping this would lighten the mood enough to make this meeting less awkward.

He furthered that attempt by extending a hand to pet the cat.

Toby hissed and recoiled.

Quickly Molly snatched her cat off the counter and placed him down on the tiled floor, shooing him away from the kitchen.

"I'm so sorry!" Molly apologized, brushing the cat hairs off her labcoat "He does that to everyone…he's _shy_…"

* * *

><p>"…Everything alright in there…?" Molly asked, tapping lightly on her bathroom door.<p>

It was a very awkward question to ask but when a male had been in the restroom for over five minutes there very likely was a problem.

"Oh, it's good, I'm fine! " Jim from IT's voice called from inside the bathroom, "Toby's fine too!"

Of course he knew she had a cat and knew what its name was, he read her blog.

He was the _only _one who read her blog…

But she didn't write in her blog how Toby scratched visitors, and how it wasn't his fault since visitors were so infrequent that Toby didn't know any better and got scared.

"Careful!" Molly warned, rushing into the restroom, "He might scratch you…"

Her voice trailed off as she stopped to see Jim petting Toby, who was purring and rolling around contentedly in the sink.

"He seems harmless enough to me…" Jim said, smiling at her, still stroking the cat.

Molly was surprised, but pleasantly so.

* * *

><p>"It's alright." Lestrade dismissed but Donovan looked disgusted.<p>

Once Toby had trotted away, Molly spoke.

"So…Jim…_James Moriarty_….he's really, um...really behind it all….?"

"Yes." Lestrade nodded gravely.

"Tonight he kidnapped and attached a bomb to John Watson." Donovan explained, "He then met the fre—"

"He then met _Sherlock Holmes…" _Lestrade corrected, "at the pool where the victim from the cold case, the fourteen year swimmer, died and tried to kill them by sniper rifle and detonating the bomb…"

"_What happened?"_ Molly demanded.

The volume and assertiveness in her voice was uncharacteristic but the suspense was ridiculous.

She had to know now.

Did Sherlock survive?

….Did _Jim?_

"He got a phone call." Lestrade answered.

"What?" Molly asked for what felt like the hundredth time that night—no, early morning.

"He received a phone call and just walked out of there." Donovan said, the answer as unsatisfactory, confusing and anti-climactic to her as it was to Molly.

"…oh…" Molly responded, fiddling with the buttons on her coat, "….did you all…um, catch him?"

"No." Lestrade stated bitterly, "He got away. We don't know how, we searched everywhere and couldn't find him."

"…and what about Sherlock…and um, Doctor Watson?" Molly inquired, "Are they okay?"

"The freak and his pet dog are fine," Donovan snapped, "It was all just fun and games for them, running around the city, solving mysteries, _keeping score_. People died, the killer got away but it was all just—"

"_Enough._" Lestrade silenced Donovan.

"So if they're okay… then you haven't come to tell me that Sherlock's died…" Molly inferred, "…and you wouldn't have come all this way at this hour just to tell me what happened…and so that must mean you're here to question me…_about Jim_…you think-"

"Yes, Ms. Hooper, like we said, we do have a few questions…" Lestrade affirmed, "But that doesn't mean we think anything. We don't think you're a suspect or knew anything about this. We just need to know if you have any information whatsoever about James Moriarty…"

"I…well, I…um…" Molly stammered, searching her brain for anything relevant.

Perhaps the argument during the _break-up_…

"Anything at all, even something that might seem small or unimportant…" Lestrade added.

"This is pointless, Greg." Donovan decided, "She doesn't know anything. You saw her face when we told her. She had no _idea._ She knows _nothing_…"

Molly wanted so badly to prove Donovan wrong, to come up with the perfect miniscule piece of information, the kind that usually only Sherlock would notice, that would lead to the arrest of Jim from IT—no _Jim Moriarty_.

Maybe because she wanted to get back at Jim for fooling her or Donovan for assuming she was ignorant just like Sherlock always did…

…or maybe it was because if she did she wouldn't feel as _stupid._

But Molly couldn't think of anything and before she could speak, Lestrade and Donovan had thanked her for her time and shown themselves out.

* * *

><p>"Nice flat…" Jim from IT admired as he stepped into the biggest room of Molly's apartment for the first, examining the room as thoroughly as if he was memorizing it.<p>

"It's small." Molly said humbly, "But I like it."

"It suits you." Jim decided, "I like it too."

"Thanks…" Molly smiled, knowing that Jim from IT had meant the comment as a compliment.

And now he was shy again, instead of scanning the room he was looking down at the carpet.

"…do you, um…" he began, "...always wear your labcoat…?"

Molly glanced down at herself, realizing that indeed she was wearing the white labcoat she wore while cutting open corpses in the morgue.

She had been so focused on getting her make-up right that she had forgotten to take the darn thing off.

"Oh! Sorry!" she exclaimed, embarrassed, "Lemme just-"

"No, uh, _allow me_…" Jim from IT offered.

Like the proper, albeit nervous, gentleman, Jim from IT helped Molly with her coat, resting it behind him on the back of the sofa.

Molly was, of course, fully dressed in simple solid colored shirt and slacks, but still felt naked, as she always did, without her labcoat.

"Thanks!" She said, staring at Jim standing in between and her armor and trying not to look as defenseless and uncomfortable as she felt.

"You look…_nice_…" Jim replied.

It had been so long since a man had complimented her appearance that Molly accepted it wholeheartedly despite the fact that it had come just at the moment she was even more vulnerable than she usually was.

* * *

><p><strong> I know I said Sherlock failed which did not happen at the point in the Great Game episode, however Molly didn't know that. <strong>

**Thanks for reading so far, thanks for reviewing so far, and I hope you like it so far!**

**Please review and I will post the next chapter soon! **

**Thanks again! **


	4. What People Do

** Waited so long to post this!**

**Again, I'm American and so all my knowledge of the UK and King's Cross Station comes from Wikipedia and Harry Potter. Sorry for any errors! **

**Hope you like it! **

* * *

><p>"So what are you doing for Easter?"<p>

(It was in a little under a week, coming up on the fourth of next month.)

Not an invitation or anything, just a casual question to make casual conversation because that's what Molly tended to do to avoid awkward silence.

And the conversation really was casual, despite it's setting (the morgue).

Molly was on one side of the cold metal table across from Jim from IT who had 'popped in just to say hello'.

Molly was comfortable around dead bodies and so was able to have a conversation with a live human while a dead one lay on the slab between her and Jim from IT…

…who seemed to be perfectly comfortable as well.

It should have been her first clue.

(But Molly didn't_ do_ clues. She did post-mortems. Sherlock was the one who did clues.)

"Oh, nothing really." Jim shrugged, "I'm not really all that religious despite being raised one of those thoroughbred Irish Catholics. Maybe I'll visit my parents or my brother or something…"

"Yeah," Molly replied, "Most people I know don't go to church or anything, neither do I. It's just a time to be with family and friends and all that—"

"An excuse to get together?" Jim defined, smiling a little.

"Yes, I guess so." Molly agreed, mimicking his expression, not just out of politeness but because she genuinely did agree.

"I always wondered why people do that," Jim said, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, "get together only on holidays that they don't even really believe just so that they can see each other when they could just organize a time…"

He began to pace slowly around the room, probably to keep from fidgeting. Molly watched him, listening and hoping that he wouldn't knock anything over.

"….or, on the other hand," Jim continued, "why they continue to meet up with people they don't actually want to be around every holiday even though they don't really have to…"

It was a bit philosophical, Jim from IT's ponderings and Molly liked it when he talked philosophical as he would do whenever the two of them went for coffee (which had been three times in the past two days).

"I suppose people do that because that's what they've always done..." Molly stated, wanting to contribute, "what people have done for hundreds of years, get together for Easter, or any holiday, really..."

Jim stopped pacing, turning to look at her.

He was now on her side of the table.

* * *

><p>Jim was hiding.<p>

What else did people _do_ when the police were looking for them?

Of course, Jim's version of hiding was sitting on a bench in King's Cross train station, tapping his touchscreen with his thumb in plain view of all people in the expansive main room.

Including several police officers.

The four uniforms stood in a circle, travelers and commuters hurrying around them on their way to and from the trains, discussing something.

Each of them held a piece of paper and when the circle broke, the four officers walked away in separate directions.

North, South, East and West.

Jim was in the west end of the high-ceilinged hall.

He was watching the busy little bees bustle about the station, always in a rush, truly believing that where they were going, what they were doing was actually important.

(That _they_ were actually important.)

One of these bees, a professionally dressed woman (wearing far too much make-up that she had obviously put on while sitting on the jolty bus, squinting into a fold-open mirror) sat down next to Jim on the bench.

She assumed he would scoot over to make room for her because it was the polite thing to_ do _and people _didn't do _was sit that close to strangers.

But when Jim didn't, the woman pretended not to notice because, after all, she was only stopping briefly to adjust the back of her six-inch pump that was digging into her heel already enough to draw blood that soaked through her panty-hoes.

Without looking up from his phone, Jim held his free arm out as if he was yawning and stretching, laying it to rest against the back of the bench and around the woman's shoulders.

She couldn't pretend not to notice _this. _

This was the kind of thing a _pervert_ would do and not needing anymore _perverts _in her life (her boss was more than enough), the woman all but jumped up from where she sat and stomped away, the backs of her feet stinging as she hadn't yet fixed her shoes.

Comfortably positioned in the middle of the bench, he continued to click away at his phone, as if unaware of his surroundings.

There was an overweight man who had just hefted himself up the stairs after taking the train back from a hard night's work at an out-of-town construction site and was in desperate need of a place to sit down.

Just as the man approached the bench, breathless, Jim decided to make it even more uninhabitable and inconvenient by lying down across the entire seat with only his legs bent so that he (and he alone) would fit.

Assuming that Jim must have simply not noticed him, because being that deliberately rude was something that people just didn't _do_, the man sighed and continued his journey home, hoping to find another bench on his way.

Once he was gone, but still close enough to see the bench, Jim sat back up, straight and confined to one side of the bench, leaving a wide space open.

However, the man didn't look back (because people didn't _do_ that in a train station) to see this, annoying Jim and so Jim went back to his phone.

In its screen's reflection Jim could see what he had been hoping for the whole morning.

_Something to do. _

One of the four police officers, the one who had walked west, was strolling in his general direction, examining his piece of paper and then glancing up at the crowds of people and then scanning each face carefully.

West's own face was disappointed, contorted in concentration and frustration (since he obviously wasn't finding what (who (Jim Moriarty)) he was looking for).

Noticing this, Jim decided to brighten West's day (and his own) and jumped up from the bench that had been his home since early that morning after his play-date at the pool.

"Help me!" he called and then ran towards West, "Help me, officer!"

"What is it sir?" West snapped, looking up from his print out at Jim distractedly.

He was on the hunt for a dangerous criminal and some random guy was interrupting him.

"I lost my bag…"Jim said sadly, "I can't find it anywhere!"

"Report it to the train station authorities." West told him, trying not to roll his eyes, "And check the lost and found."

He tried not to make it obvious, though, that he was annoyed.

Police officers didn't _do _that, they had a job to do, which included civility towards the public they pledged to protect.

"But I did that already!" Jim complained, "It wasn't there and the people working here didn't _help _me! They were very _unhelpful!_ That's why I need your _help_!"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't help you with that." West apologized.

"But why?" Jim sobbed.

West paused for a moment, tapping his foot impatiently.

He was in a hurry to locate a fleeing mass murderer but it's not like this civilian with the lost bag knew that and there was _no way_ he was going to tell him classified case information.

Police officers didn't _do_ that.

"Because…um…" West trailed off, trying to think of an excuse, "Because it's not my jurisdiction. I'm sorry."

He tried to step around Jim but Jim moved to block him from passing.

"But officer!" Jim begged, "My bag!"

"I'm sorry." West insisted and, as politely as he could, pushed past Jim.

Normally people, especially police officers, didn't_ do_ that; but these were extenuating circumstances given that there was a killer on the loose and this civilian was being very uncooperative.

Jim waited until West was halfway down the stairs to call out after him.

"Oh, and by the way," Jim shouted, "I saw something suspicious down on the terminal. A group of shady-looking foreign blokes, Arabs I think, muttering some gibberish in another language and packing suitcases onto a train. They didn't get on it."

West stopped.

So far trying to find this Moriarty fugitive was proving fruitless, but what if he was to stop a _terrorist attack_?

That would be much better then finding some criminal. He would be a hero!

This day could still go well for him, he decided.

"Where?" West asked, turning around to stand in the middle of the stairs and face Jim who was now standing at the top of them.

"Right over there." Jim answered, pointing down at the terminal below.

Indeed a group of men that stood out particularly because of their turbans, were loading luggage onto a train that they were 'suspiciously' not boarding.

Without another word, West turned again and dashed down the remainder of the stairs.

He knew what he had to do.

Jim watched from the upper floor, leaning forward against a slight balcony's railing, as West went running across the terminal.

West shoved his way through people, both walking and standing, who turned to glare angrily.

He even knocked one elderly woman over, that the rushing travelers and commuters strode right past without helping up or calling for aid, too busy, too much in a hurry and too important to _do_ anything but what they did everyday; travel and commute.

Despite the fact that he was already wearing his uniform, West pulled out his badge, flashing it in front of him as he ran and dropping his paper in the process.

Finally, he reached the group of shady-looking foreign blokes, demanding to know what they were up to.

A crowd of onlookers congregated to see the show. Suddenly no one was in a hurry anymore.

Against the protests of the men, West started pulling the bags out from the compartment they had been putting them into, opening the first few and tossing their contents out as he searched for something illegal (a bomb, maybe, because setting bombs is what Muslims _do_).

He even went so far as to pat one of the men down before a train station authority arrived and informed him that these men were the Sikh immigrants from India and employees of the particular train company of the train they were loading the luggage into.

Jim watched for a little while longer as West tried to explain himself, defend his actions and then finally apologize.

He strolled down the stairs and across the terminal to get a closer look, joining the cloud of bees buzzing around this unexpected disruption.

On his way over, Jim stopped only once, bending over to pick up the paper West had dropped in his haste.

It was a pencil drawn portrait of a very handsome man (it was a police sketch of a suspect).

Jim grinned down at the print out, noting that any similarities between his face and the image were completely coincidental (yeah, sure) and any discrepancies between his face and the image were completely deliberate.

(As Sherlock Holmes probably had a photographic memory and would be able to describe in perfect, exact detail what Jim Moriarty's face looked like to the police sketch artist. (This of course meant that dear Sherlock didn't want police to catch his new arch-nemesis and wanted that pleasure himself, after the pleasures of a few more games.) )

Jim chuckled to himself, turned and went back up the stairs.

From up on the balcony, he locked eyes with a flustered, embarrassed and distressed West, waving and smiling to him.

From the look on his face, it seemed that West blamed Jim for the mistake he was now getting berated for by the train station authority (and several outspoken members of the onlookers who criticized West's ethnic profiling of what he thought to be Arab Muslims as terrorist criminals and his ignorant insensitivity of mistaking Sikhs for Muslims).

Jim winked at West and then carefully folded the police sketch into a paper airplane.

He sent the paper gliding through the air, from the upper floor all the way down to land at West's feet. West bent, picked it up, and unfolded it.

As soon as he was sure that West finally recognized him and was trying to push through the crowd towards him, Jim disappeared into the masses.

* * *

><p>Scotland Yard loomed above ahead of Molly as she approached it.<p>

Normally it didn't loom and was actually quite a nice building to visit where the people were formal but polite and those she had seen once or twice before even offered her a smile as she passed them in the hallway on her way to explain her findings on a particularly unique corpse or practice testimony for court.

But this morning it loomed over Molly while she walked purposefully slow towards its front doors.

It continued to loom as she crept through its halls, passing people passing her or sitting at desks in rooms that stared at her accusingly or worse, right through her as if she wasn't even there (or rather didn't deserve to be there and so they were going to pretend as if she wasn't).

Maybe Molly was imagining all this, maybe it was just her nerves.

Yes, Molly was nervous.

What else would a girl be when police awoke her in the middle of the night (early morning) to inform her that her ex-boyfriend was a killer and criminal mastermind and so now she was coming to their headquarters to tell them what little information she had on him which she had forgotten completely (suspiciously) about the night (early morning) before?

"_I could go on forever like this, probably will too."_

"_I'll make sure that never happens. Personally." _

It was a vague threat, but a threat all the same.

And so, yes, Molly was scared too.

But it wasn't just for her own self-preservation that she was planning to talk to the police, it was the very selfless fact that if Moriarty (as she was now insistently calling him, rather than 'Jim' or 'Jim from IT') ever did decide to make good on his vague threat they could use her as bait and capture him.

However, Molly didn't actually think that Moriarty was very likely to do whatever it was he had intended to do_ personally _now that he had just committed many major crimes including blowing up a building and killing twelve people.

Any criminal smart enough to be labeled a mastermind by the likes (and there were few likes) of Sherlock Holmes would be smart enough to flee the country since the entire British government would be searching for him.

Which is why (along with the sheer shock) that Molly hadn't mentioned what Moriarty had told her the evening she and 'Jim from IT' had 'broken-up'.

The threat itself was vague and not actually all that threatening and now there was little chance it would be acted upon.

And so why was Molly even bothering to tell police (Lestrade (and not Donovan) hopefully) about this now?

Because it was something to _do._

Something_ better _to do.

(Rather than go to work, cut open and examine the charred explosion victims of Moriarty).

"_Sorry, Molly! I'm gonna have to cancel our date tonight, seems I've found something better to do!" _

Was Molly really that boring?

"_There's not point in asking her about him, she won't be of any help. She knows nothing!" _

Was Molly really that useless?

_No. _

She would make sure that she wasn't. _Personally._

She would tell Lestrade (hopefully he would be here and available) about the vague threat Moriarty had made to her on the slim chance it would actually help the police find and arrest him.

Who knows, maybe for once, Molly would be lucky.

Molly turned the corner into the hallway she knew Lestrade and his team's offices were located.

When she entered the room it was well-lit but empty, full of desks messy from files and papers and computers messy with files and database searches.

Before she could call out hello and make her (meek) presence known in the large (looming) room, Molly heard a conversation being muttered in Lestrade's office across over on the other side of the room.

Being a quiet girl, Molly was never any good at making conversation but always _very_ good at overhearing one.

She could make out the whispers and recognized the voices as she inched closer, making sure to stay out of sight as she listened in.

"He's gone. Hopefully for good, or at least a good while. Let's be thankful for that."

Doctor Watson.

"_I'll_ be thankful when he's behind bars."

Lestrade.

"I'll be thankful when _we_ put him there."

Donovan.

"By _'we'_ you must mean _'me'_ since the entirety of Scotland Yard has absolutely no chance whatsoever of catching him without my assistance."

_Sherlock. _

Molly blushed involuntarily at the sound of his deep voice, as she always did.

She didn't know if it was because she had a crush on him or because she was embarrassed by the fact that she used to since she was no longer quite sure of her feelings about him or anyone _(Jim)_ anymore.

She decided it was somewhere in the middle.

Thankful no one could see her or her red face Molly continued to eavesdrop on the conversation that was obviously about Moriarty.

"Don't forget, freak, that without your _'assistance'_ all this business with the bombs wouldn't have started in the first place." Donovan's voice reminded.

"You can't blame Sherlock for this!" Doctor Watson's voice countered, "Moriarty was already a criminal anyway, he was killing long before he started messing with Sherlock and if it wasn't Sherlock it would've been somebody else."

"John's right." Lestrade's voice agreed, "You can't blame Sherlock for this, Sally."

"I'm not blaming him, I'm just saying—" Donovan's voice protested.

"He's as much a victim as the rest of them!" Doctor Watson interrupted, "In case you've forgotten Moriarty tried to have Sherlock shot!"

"I am _not_ Moriarty's '_victim'_." Sherlock's voice declared, "I am his_ opponent_…or _was_ before he changed his mind, left, changed his mind again and came back trying to kill us and then changed his mind a final time after receiving a phone call and walking away."

"…He's quite the, um, _'changeable'_ guy, isn't he?" Doctor Watson's voice said with an awkward laugh.

Sherlock's voice joined him in the awkward laugh.

Lestrade and Donovan did not.

It must have been some kind of inside joke between Sherlock and Doctor Watson that even they couldn't decide whether or not it was _'too soon'. _

Then there was a cough.

Molly decided it was Lestrade who had coughed to break the tension and return the conversation to its previous topic.

"That strange behavior is just more proof that Moriarty is a psychotic killer." Lestrade's voice began, "It's only a matter of time before he kills again. We can't have him on the loose."

"Well he's obviously fled the country." Donovan's voice stated, "Who wouldn't do that when all of Scotland Yard is after you? He's probably hiding in some third world country by now. If he kills again there, it's not our problem."

"That's cold." Sherlock's voice commented coldly, "And people say _I'm_ the sociopath."

"No, _freak_, you say that about yourself." Donovan's voice corrected, "And the only reason you care about what Moriarty is up to, wherever he is, is because you want to play your little games with him again."

"We've had uniforms canvassing all the airports, train and bus stations in the greater London area since we heard what happened at the pool..." Lestrade's voice continued, "But so far they haven't found him."

"Well it's not like he'd be catching a bus out town just like that." Doctor Watson's voice snorted.

"No, you're right, John." Sherlock's voice agreed, "He wouldn't leave the city at all."

"Why wouldn't he!" Donovan's voice demanded, "He knows he can't stay here, everyone's looking for him!"

"He has to stay here." Sherlock's voice explained, "He has a _business _to run."

"He can do that from anywhere." Donovan's voice scoffed, "Internet? Remember?"

"He can, but he _won't._" Sherlock's voice stated, "He'll stay here in London."

"Well alright then, you seem to know _everything_ about him," Donovan's voice baited, "where is he? Tell me that, _genius_."

"In London." Sherlock's voice answered.

"Ugh!" Donovan's voice groaned, "Greg he is not helping. Can you make him leave! Just leave, freak, if you're not going to help. Just go."

"Hold on now, he_ is_ helping." Doctor Watson's voice insisted, "You're just not _listening."_

"Sherlock if you do have any idea where Moriarty might be could you please share it with us." Lestrade's voice asked politely but frustrated-ly.

"We won't find him unless he wants to be found." Sherlock's voice decided.

"So you're just giving up?" Donovan's voice exclaimed.

"There are bigger things to worry about at the moment than the whereabouts of Jim Moriarty." Sherlock's voice told.

"Oh yeah, like what?" Donovan's voice asked, "The different types of cigarette ash?"

"So you _do_ read my website, Detective." Sherlock's voice sneered, "I'm_ flattered_. At least _someone_ does."

"I don't read your stupid website—" Donovan's voice started but was interrupted.

"And to answer your question…" Sherlock's voice continued, "_one _of the bigger things to worry about at the moment other than the whereabouts of Jim Moriarty, the one that you would find most relevant to this current case, is the fact that Moriarty planted all those clues for me to solve, kidnapped all those people to get my attention all so that I would go after him…"

"Yeah, so?" Donovan's voice replied, "I thought we'd established that this was _all about you_ already."

"Yes I know." Sherlock's voice agreed, "And so why then did Moriarty, when I did go after him, tell me to back-off and then threaten to kill me and John if I didn't?"

There was a dramatic moment of silence after Sherlock's words in which everyone (including the listening intently Molly) attempted to answer his question.

"…well you guys did say he was 'changeable'." Lestrade's voice attempted after a bit, also with an awkward laugh since he was attempting not only to break the silence but join in on Sherlock and John's 'too-soon' inside joke.

"Yes, we did." Sherlock's voice noted without even a chuckle out of politeness to Lestrade, "And so did _he_. But I don't believe that change was intrinsic. I think outside forces forced him to stop_ playing_ with me."

"Why?" Lestrade's voice inquired.

"I'm not sure." Sherlock's voice admitted, "But I have several theories. The most likely of which being that _I know his name._"

"But it's not like it was a secret or anything…" Doctor Watson's voice reminded, "I mean, sure you'd heard it around before and suspected and all that, but at the pool he _told_ you. He introduced himself, for god's sake."

"And that was the problem." Sherlock's voice explained, "_Somebody_ didn't like that. Didn't like that I knew Moriarty's name and what he was doing. And so _somebody_ told Moriarty to _stop playing with his food and just eat it already_. Telling me to back-off and ending our game wasn't enough. I know too much. _Somebody_ wanted me dead…and for Moriarty to stay in the shadows."

"Do you think you're in danger?" Lestrade's voice asked, "We could put a protective—"

"I'm not in danger." Sherlock's voice answered, "And neither is John or anyone else. Not from Moriarty or any of his associates for the moment, at least. He's going to lay low until this all dissipates, perhaps even forever. He'll go back to running his operation in secret."

"But what about…um, that woman who works in the morgue, um, Molly?" Doctor Watson's voice inquired, suddenly as if he had just remembered, "Wasn't she, well, _seeing_ Moriarty? What about her? Is she safe?"

Molly almost squeaked at hearing her name but managed to stay silent and listen carefully to this discussion that now included her as a topic.

She was pleasantly surprised that someone had remembered her involvement (however miniscule, unwitting and embarrassing it was) in the situation although she did wish that it had been Sherlock.

"We spoke with her." Lestrade's voice said, "She said that she had already broken up with him before this all happened and had no idea who he really was. We didn't put a protective detail on her house because we didn't deem it necessary and we needed all available officers to search for Moriarty."

"She could be in danger!" Doctor Watson's voice declared, "Moriarty could go back and kill her if he thought she knew too much. He already tried to do that with Sherlock."

"She didn't _know_ anything." Donovan's voice reminded.

Molly, again, really wanted to prove Donovan wrong.

And she was going to stop listening in, march into Lestrade's office and do just that when—

"For once I agree with you, _detective._" Sherlock's voice stated, "Molly knows _nothing._ She didn't even know that her own boyfriend was gay. Or that she makes a third less then all the others at the hospital who have the same position, qualifications and experience as her simply because she doesn't have the sense and the nerve to ask for a raise. She lives in a world even more stupidly oblivious then the rest of the general population, save, of course, for myself. She doesn't need protection, she'd be too oblivious to even know when she's in danger. No, she doesn't need protection, except, maybe, from her own ignorance and if you were to put a police detail on everyone who…"

Molly heard Sherlock's voice taper off into the silence caused by the others in the room having probably the same (although much less strong) reaction as she was to his statement.

Shock at the lack of tact (even for Sherlock) and sheer harshness of his words.

Doctor Watson, Lestrade and Donovan must have also had pity towards Molly (whom they had no idea was listening at the time).

Molly, herself, was done with (self) pity.

Sherlock didn't like her. She _got_ it.

Sherlock_ really_ didn't like her. She _really _got it.

And she wasn't going to go home and cry about it.

If Sherlock thought she was stupid she would prove him wrong.

And if Scotland Yard thought she didn't know anything and couldn't help them she would prove them wrong too.

_Personally. _

"Sherlock…" Doctor Watson's voice began carefully, "We're not any help here right now…I think we should leave…"

"….Alright…" Sherlock's voice uncharacteristically agreed, also very carefully "Let's go, John…"

Molly didn't stick around to hear what else was she said since she wanted to get out of the room before Sherlock or anyone saw her and realized she had been listening the whole time.

She darted quickly and quietly out of the room and down the hall, dipping into the first bathroom she saw knowing there would be no way she would run into Sherlock in there.

Molly waited in the bathroom for exactly thirty minutes, after which she decided Sherlock and Doctor Watson were long gone and it was safe for her to escape Scotland Yard without being seen by Lestrade or Donovan either.

She hurried towards home, her mind racing, remembering.

_"You don't have to be so dramatic about it. Lies or not, I've been living this way my whole life. It's easy. And I could go on forever like this, too…I probably will."_

_"….No you won't. No. you. won't. I am going to _personally_ make sure that doesn't happen. I promise you…"_

A threat, yes, albeit a vague threat, a threat not likely to be carried out but still a threat that scared Molly.

And excited her.

Why wouldn't it?

Change was always scary but it also could be very exciting.

The prospect of her life changing, of not going on forever like this; living a lonely, isolated lie her whole life' excited Molly.

Just a little (okay, maybe a lot) she hoped that Moriarty would make good on his 'promise' or perhaps, that _Jim_ would…

It was why after 'Jim from IT's' unexplained (at the time) outburst, which had freaked her out and frightened her, Molly still went home and apologized on her blog to him.

She thought she might never see him again otherwise after she had watched him disappear into the crowd of people on that London street.

He didn't comment but…

…she did notice that that blog post had had one hit…

(And there was only one person, so far, that had ever read her blog.)

So when Molly got home from her trip to Scotland Yard which did not go as planned she sat down in front of her laptop again on the couch to update her blog.

She stated that she would no longer be keeping this blog (like anyone cared) and that she was going to stay positive (she had been living this way her whole life).

And inside the paragraph of her post she embedded one sentence, a direct message to the only reader:

_It was all a lie. _

It had been Moriarty not 'Jim from IT' who had lectured her about lying and living a lie (staying positive).

It was him; he was the one who told her that he would _'personally' _make sure that she _didn't._

Molly really did hope he would keep his promise.

Maybe that would mean Moriarty would kill her and so she could no longer go on living the way she had been forever because she was dead…

…Or maybe Moriarty would change her life by giving her a hobby until she became the hero that located and lead to the arrest of the dangerous consulting criminal.

Maybe Molly would be lucky.

Either way, Jim Moriarty made her a threat, made her a _promise _that he would decide to make good on.

And since Molly had discontinued her blog and no one could comment he would have to do it in_ person_…

* * *

><p>"I never asked you what you were doing for Easter, Molly." Jim from IT stated, "So what <em>are<em> you doing…?"

(The polite, casual question in response to her original question.)

Before she could answer, Jim added, "…visiting your parents?"

Quick and deliberate, as if he _knew _the answer.

(It should have been her second clue.)

"…my parents, they've, um…they've passed away." Molly replied.

The hesitance in her words more because of the awkwardness that came with telling someone this information, rather than the actual information itself.

"Oh…oh my-!"Jim from IT fumbled , "I'm really—I'm so sorry…"

"It's okay." Molly said and then smiled to show that she meant it, "Really it is."

Jim from IT was trying not to look Molly in the eye, his face reddening, and so his gaze found the body lying on the table.

Its (his) eyes were closed politely but it's (his) torso was cut cleanly open, the red incision visible through the white sheet Molly had placed over the body when Jim had 'popped in just to say hello'

Molly moved to stand in between Jim and his view of the table, forcing him to look up at her.

"Still…" he said, "It must be hard…I'm sorry…."

"You don't have to apologize." Molly stated.

"I guess—I mean-" Jim from IT said, "I feel like I have to cause it's just what you do, you know, when you say something like that and then the other person…it's like you saying you're okay, it's just what you have to say...even if you don't mean it."

"But I do mean it, I'm fine." Molly insisted, and then to prove it she laughed, gesturing around the metal room, "I work morgue, remember. I'm around death all the time…it doesn't bother me."

"I know but…" Jim continued, as if he wanted Molly not to be okay and that if she was okay then he was going to convince her that she wasn't, "I know it's hard. When my uncle died I was a mess and I don't even want to imagine how I'd be if my parents…"

"I was very little when my mom died so I can't really remember her…" Molly explained, "and when my dad finally died…well we all knew it was coming for a while then and so I guess that made it easier…yeah it is hard but at the same time you carry on because life goes on. I mean even though your loved one is gone you're still alive so you have to…you have to, well-"

"Live?" Jim finished her sentence.

"Yes. _Live_." Molly nodded, "That's what people _do_, isn't it?"

* * *

><p><strong>Please review!<strong>

**The only way I bother to write is when I know people are reading, the only way I know people are reading is if they review, so please bother to review! **


	5. Business As Unusual

**Hello there! Thank you so much for the reviews!**

**The more reviews I get, the quicker I update! **

** So keep on reviewing, thanks! **

**And this chapter has a little bit from Molly's blog which can be found a : / / w w w . . c o . u k / (remove spaces)**

**btw, Molly and Jim meet again in this one, dun dun dun! **

**Hope you like it!**

* * *

><p>Things were back to normal.<p>

The rest of spring was_ normal._

(A prince had married a commoner without scandal-_so maybe not...)_

Summer was _normal.__  
><em>

(Rioters ransacked the streets-_so maybe not...)_

Life was _normal._

And Molly went to work and then went home and then went to work and then went home and so on and so on.

It had been six months since Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty's 'Great Game'…

(as Sherlock called it, much to the disgust of Sally Donovan and Anderson, and much to the sigh and eye-roll of Lestrade and John Watson)

…and since the two of them were the only things 'not normal' in Molly's life and they were both currently_ not_ interacting with her, Molly's life was back to normal.

(and also incredibly boring (not that that bothered her))

It was sad, of course, that the highlight of Molly's life were the rare times Sherlock would show up at the morgue for a few minutes asking for a 'spare' (well, they were all spare, weren't they, since none of them were being used) body part.

And it was sad, of course, that Molly would always oblige and Sherlock would wait, impatiently fidgeting, as she carefully severed whatever limb it was he wanted from some unclaimed corpse, put it into a cooler and then gave it to him.

And it was sad, of course, oh so sad, that Sherlock would then leave her there in the cold morgue alone, again, without even a 'thank-you'.

But this was _normal._

(And wasn't normal what Molly had been trying so hard to be since the kids at primary school had called her 'weird'?)

It's too bad it was boring (not that she was complaining (yes she _was_, she definitely _was_.))

'Normal', however, was such a subjective word, Molly decided, knowing that for Sherlock 'normal' probably meant solving impossible mysteries and chasing down criminals. _That _wasn't boring.

But Molly's 'normal' was.

And what was she going to do about it?

_Absolutely nothing. _

She was just going to go to work, do her job and then go home and so on and so on.

That was until _it_ started.

_It_ had all started when Molly was on her way home from work one cool September day.

It was a quick train ride, just one stop since she lived conveniently close to the hospital but all that short trip Molly felt as if someone was _following her._

Used to being ignored and going unnoticed Molly always 'woke up' a bit whenever she got that feeling of being watched.

Sitting in her normal train car, in her normal seat, at the normal time as she normally did, Molly looked up from the magazine she pretended to read on her way home even though reading while in motion always made her sick to her stomach.

She scanned the car for unfamiliar faces, (and there were always a few), but it was mostly the same people, most actually from the hospital, who worked the same shift as Molly and who talked amongst themselves or checked their phones or tried to sleep or stared into space right past her.

Molly couldn't pick anyone out of the crowd of the crowded train car but she could still _feel _someone's eyes on her.

Her invisible stalker followed her all the way home, off the tube, down the street and even into her apartment building where she heard footsteps behind her on the stairs but turned around to see nobody.

_Maybe she was going crazy..._

* * *

><p>Molly closed her dark brown eyes and let the hot water pour over her dirty blonde hair and body.<p>

She normally showered after work since examining dead bodies wasn't the cleanest of careers.

But today, instead of scrubbing herself efficiently, she just stood there.

It was the fourth day she had been 'followed home' and she was trying to calm herself down.

Molly's eyes flew open.

There had been a crash.

Maybe it was Toby?

_No. _

When her cat knocked something over, he _did_ jump in surprise but then he trotted away nonchalantly as nothing happened and he was as innocent as could be.

This crash wasn't Toby.

This crash had sent Toby scurrying across the carpet and bounding into the bathroom, mewing to Molly from his safe place in the sink.

_Someone was inside her apartment!_

Molly kept the shower running and silently stepped out from behind the curtain.

Toby stared up at her and meowed again.

Molly dried her hand with the towel hanging on the door, pet Toby and then wrapped the towel around herself.

The bathroom door had already been thrown open by her cat and so Molly crept through it out into her hallway.

She listened for any noises.

All she heard was the city outside her window.

Louder than normal…

Molly then felt the draft; it wasn't just the water on her skin chilling her.

_The window was open! _

Dashing across her apartment, Molly found the open window in her living room and slammed it shut, drawing the curtains tightly closed.

_What the hell…?_

* * *

><p>Whenever a child died an autopsy was automatically ordered.<p>

This particular child, a teenage girl of fifteen, whose sixteenth birthday was only three months away as indicated by her files, lay on Molly's table.

It was always sad, yes but she wasn't the first and she wasn't the youngest and so Molly treated her no differently than any other murder victim.

Except, of course, that this girl wasn't murdered.

It was always sad when a child committed suicide.

Normally police, medical examiners and doctors wouldn't reveal suicide as the cause of death to the child's parents if the results of the exam were even slightly ambiguous.

They wanted to spare the family the grief of knowing not only was their loved one dead, but that their loved one wanted to be dead and it was all their fault.

But there was no question with this girl.

Molly had found the note in the girl's pocket during the external examination.

(In the other pocket was a second bottle of her mother's prescription, most likely there just in case downing the first bottle hadn't worked.)

_I want you to know that you made me do this! You did this to me, all of you! See what you've done! I just couldn't take it anymore!_

_Goodbye…_

There was no way to conceal this from the parents; they _would_ feel the grief of knowing their daughter had ended her own life…

…and they would blame themselves.

(and wasn't that what this girl had wanted, given the note she had written before swallowing an overdose of her mother's medication?)

Before she could put the note into evidence the phone rang.

Quickly setting the folded paper down on the metal table Molly went to answer the landline on the wall.

She wondered who it was since it was rare for the morgue to receive phone calls, guessing that it was probably someone in the hospital or from the police calling to ask a question.

"Hello?" Molly said as she picked up the phone and put it to her ear.

No answer.

"…hello…?" Molly repeated, "Is anyone there?"

Still no answer.

Molly hung up the phone and started back towards the table to continue her work.

The phone rang again.

"_Hello?_!" Molly answered.

Breathing.

Just heavy breathing.

"Who is this?" Molly demanded.

When she, once again, received no answer Molly slammed the phone back on to the wall.

_Someone was prank calling her. _

The phone rang again.

"You know it's illegal to make prank calls like this!" Molly snapped into the phone as soon as she picked it up.

"_Excuse me…?"_ the confused and offended voice of Donovan asked, "This is Sargent Sally Donovan, I was just calling to ask a question. Is this Molly Hooper?"

"Um…yes…" Molly stated, embarrassed, "I'm sorry…I thought-what was your question?"

* * *

><p>Molly was glad to be home as soon as she got there.<p>

Those prank calls had put her into a bad mood. They had become a somewhat of a normal occurrence now these past three weeks and Molly tried her best to disregard them but she could never just not answer the phone—just in case it actually was someone calling for a legitimate reason.

And, as usual, Molly had felt someone watching and following her on her way back to her apartment (which was now also 'normal').

Molly sank down into her couch and switched on the television, determined to lose herself in whatever drama that was on and forget all about her not so good day.

About ten minutes into a show, as she was already drifting off into a nap, Molly heard a knock on the door.

She considered ignoring it but when it became more insistent Molly reluctantly rose from the couch and hurried to her front door to answer it.

But once she opened the door no one was there.

Molly poked her head out the door, looking both way up and down the hallway but seeing no one.

She yelled "hello" out into the hall, just in case, but knew that it was pointless.

On her way back to the sofa, after closing the door, Molly had a feeling that this was going to become a _thing. _

She was right.

Two more times Molly was roused from the couch by a knock at the door.

Practically running on the third time towards the door, she threw it open to find out just who was playing knocking version of 'ding-dong-ditch' with her.

And after that third time Molly found nobody there, Molly waited for the knock to come again.

For almost half an hour Molly stared into the peep hole, hidden behind her closed door like a predator lying in wait for its prey.

Alas, Molly was no hunter and the knocker never knocked on her door again that day.

(although he did the next day, and the day after that and again the day after that.)

* * *

><p>At this point Molly realized that there was probably only one person who would want to do this to her, who would actually do this to her and who would get away with doing this to her (or anyone).<p>

And that person's name was Jim Moriarty.

He _had_ to be the one pranking her like this, he was _obviously_ trying to scare her and carry out the threat he had made to her before she had even known who he really was.

Molly wondered if she should call the police but decided against it as she had no proof that it was Moriarty doing this to her, let alone that these things were even happening to her at all.

_People might think that she was just going crazy. _

So what was Molly going to do about this, then?

_Nothing. _

It was all she could do. Do _nothing_ and wait for something else (_worse?_) to happen.

_And it did. _

It was the beginning of November and Molly had only left the morgue for a few minutes, just gone down the hall to the vending machine to get a snack, but when she came back the corpse that was on her table had been _moved._

Well dead bodies didn't just get up and _move_ so Molly knew that someone (Jim Moriarty) must have moved it.

The body, a gunshot victim of a robbery gone wrong, was now seated upright on the table, elbow resting on his knee and chin resting on his palm as if he was in deep thought despite being _dead._

After gaping in shock for a few seconds Molly approached the corpse to return it to its proper position but then stopped.

_This was proof! _

Molly turned and hurried back out of the room to get security.

When she returned, uniformed security guard in tow, Molly said "look" and pointed to the strangely situated body.

Except when the guard looked the table was empty.

"I don't see anything." He told her.

"_What?"_ Molly exclaimed and looked away from the guard, over to the empty table and then back at the guard, "What—huh—but—_how?_!"

"Look lady, I said I had to see this to believe it" he guard began, "and I don't see anything. This is a big hospital and I don't have time to waste down here when there are living people that could be in danger upstairs."

"It was there!" Molly cried, "I saw it! I swear!"

"Get your eyes checked, then." The guard said, folding his arms, "There's a good ophthalmologist on the sixth floor."

He was about to leave the room.

Flushed by the missing body and the man's insult, Molly struggled to speak.

"The body's still gone, isn't it!" she reminded, "Even if it's not sitting up like I said it was, it's still_ gone_. Somebody must have taken it!"

"Now a missing body is a big deal, ma'am." The security guard stated, "If a body goes missing we have to call in the cops and write up the reports and—"

"I know." Molly interrupted flatly, "I work here."

"Exactly," the guard agreed, "So before you go saying a body's gone missing why don't you look for it first and save us all the trouble if it's just been 'misplaced'."

"Look," Molly countered, "I had it there on the table. Bodies don't just get up and walk away…"

"Maybe you put it back before you left the room." The guard suggested, "Isn't that procedure? Check in the drawer."

It was technically procedure but she was just going down to the vending machine…

"I know I didn't-" Molly started.

"Just check." The guard insisted.

"Fine…"Molly sighed.

The security guard followed her as she passed the empty table and went all the way over to where the rows of refrigerated metal drawers held the bodies.

She opened the one that belonged to her missing patient, knowing it would be empty.

"See." She said.

"Yes I do." The guard replied, "It's right there."

"What?" Molly exclaimed, looking away from the guard and down at the pulled out drawer where the body lay normally.

"I'm leaving now." The security guard declared.

Molly let him go, not even turning to watch him leave, as her face was now burning red.

She was still in disbelief, still embarrassed but now Molly was angry.

Moriarty was definitely the one doing this.

He was trying to mess with her and it was working.

* * *

><p>When Molly got home from work that night to find her door unlocked, hanging slightly open, and her apartment 'redecorated' (not trashed, but completely disorganized) she had had enough.<p>

Molly called Lestrade.

It was kind of silly thing to do without any proof but she knew that it would either get Moriarty to stop…

…or draw him out.

Molly hadn't mentioned his name but Lestrade (who was not stupid, despite Sherlock's assertions that he was and who was quite over qualified to be investigating a simple breaking and entering) immediately suspected it once had had heard her story.

"Do you think that this could be…_Moriarty_…doing this to you?" he asked cautiously.

He was standing facing Molly in her living room as rank and file officers catalogued all the 'misplaced' items.

Pillows were stacked in the fridge, the television and microwave had switched places, the two stools were tucked into bed, a plugged in lamp was taking a shower (that proved difficult to remove), and the cat was sleeping in the sink (he always did that but the police didn't know).

"…I don't…_know_…" Molly answered. It was technically true.

"And nothing was taken?" Lestrade clarified.

"No." Molly shook her head.

"I see." He stated seriously, "I'll be putting a detail parked outside this building. If you want I can have a female officer, Sally, maybe, stay with you tonight just in—"

"_No_." Molly said too suddenly and too sharply, "I mean no thank you. I don't…I don't I need that. I think I'm safe. I think if it's_ him_ and if he wanted to kill me…he would have done it already."

"Are you sure?" Lestrade checked, looking more worried than Molly did.

"Yes, I'm sure." Molly confirmed, "I'm fine."

"And you're sure you don't want me to contact…" Lestrade paused, "…_Sherlock Holmes_?"

"I'm _sure._" Molly insisted, making sure that she made no visible reaction to the name she had just heard.

She hadn't called the police to get their help, directly at least.

And she definitely hadn't called them for them to get _Sherlock_ involved.

"Alright, then." Lestrade conceded.

He reassembled all his men and they filed out of Molly's apartment, leaving her to put it back together again.

From the window, though, Molly could see a police car parked across the street even long after all the others had left.

It wasn't marked, like the rest, but Molly recognized it.

It was Lestrade's.

* * *

><p>For a while, again, things returned to normal.<p>

('Normal' now including a police car, (sometimes marked, sometimes not) hanging outside of Molly's apartment building at night and in the hospital parking lot during the daytime.)

And so whenever Molly felt like she was being followed she just pretended that it was police trying to protect her.

Yes, everything was back to normal and Molly wondered if _it _would ever happen again.

('It' being _Jim Moriarty.)_

_It did. _

Molly walked into the morgue to begin her shift, the first body of the day already lying in wait on her table.

Reading her clipboard for the information about the body (John Doe, found that morning), Molly in her labcoat prepared to the post-mortem exam.

She looked down at the body on the table, gasped, dropped her clipboard and backed away.

Jim Moriarty's eyes opened and he rose slowly to a seated position, smiling.

"Hello, Molly." He greeted.

Molly gaped at him in shock.

She had been expecting something like this just not _this._

And _this _was the first time she had seen him since he was 'Jim from IT'.

( He was much more intimidating than she had remembered, the very opposite of the timid 'Jim from IT'.)

"…What are you doing here…?" Molly asked finally, speaking with deliberate evenness which caused her words to come out slowly.

She tried not to stare at him (we was wearing only the standard white blanket which hung loosely, covering almost nothing and threatening to fall off) and instead looked over to her collection of medical tools, deciding which one she would use as a weapon if came down to it.

"Why I came to see you of course, Molly _dearest_…" Moriarty explained, "You stopped writing your blog and I just _had_ to find out what you were up to…You know, I really loved that blog but I can see why you discontinued it, John Watson's is just_ so much _better, you just couldn't _compete_…"

"…okay…." Molly said, unsure of how to respond or if she should run.

"You wanna know what my favorite entry of your blog was?" Moriarty baited.

"Okay…" Molly repeated.

"The second one." Moriarty stated and then grinned.

Molly gulped.

"_Do you believe in love at first sight? There's this man and I love him. At least, I think I do. I can't stop thinking about him…" _Moriarty quoted in a high-pitched, overly-girly voice, "Ooh…I wonder who that could be about?"

"It's not—" She began but was cut-off.

"_He's so intelligent it's like he's burning." _Moriarty continued, still mocking Molly, "You're right, you know, it really _is _like he's _burning_… _oh, I can't stop thinking about him_. I can't either, Molly, we're the _same—" _

"Stop!" Molly exclaimed.

" _I'm a sensible girl, I always have been." _Moriarty spoke in that false voice, undeterred, "_Until he walks into the room and then suddenly I'm this little mouse." _

"Just _stop_!" Molly pleaded.

"_He turns me into a mouse." _Moriarty finished with a snicker, "Turns you into a mouse, you say? _That's interesting._ Sherlock Holmes turns '_Little Miss Perfect' _Molly Hooper into a_ mouse_."

"I just…." Molly whispered, wondering why she had even posted all that online in the first place.

"It's _adorable_, really." Moriarty commented, "But it also says a little something about your personality, _'Little Miss Perfect'_... It's a certain kind of person who says some guy _they're oh so madly in love with_ turns them into a 'mouse'… _and then goes out and buys a cat_. A certain kind of person_ indeed_, don't you think?

"…I suppose so…" Molly agreed, sighing and gazing down at her feet.

She decided there was no point in arguing with Moriarty and so she might as well just agree with every thing he said instead of giving him the satisfaction of laughing at her crying and denying it.

"But let me tell you something, Little Miss_ Mouse_…" He began again, "Sherlock Holmes isn't _cat._ Cats enjoy the _hunt, _enjoy chasing down their prey. Sometimes they play with it a bit before they eat it. Sometimes they don't even bother eating it; the_ game_ was all they wanted. Now that may sound like Sherlock to you, mousie dearest, but it's not him. Sherlock Holmes is not a cat."

Molly listened, confused as to where Moriarty was going with this.

"Sherlock Holmes is a _dog._" He explained, " A _bloodhound._ He's _restless_ and he _smells everything! …_He loves to play_ fetch_, and he loves the _hunt_, especially the foxes… but most of all he loves to _chase cats_. He doesn't concern himself with mice because mice are tiny and timid and they don't know how to play the _game_. Sherlock _loves_ to play the game and he_ loves_ to chase cats because they_ play back_. But Sherlock will_ never_ love a little mouse like _you._"

Molly was silent.

But it was not like Moriarty had told her something she hadn't known for a long time now. He had told her what she already knew.

He had just used different words.

"You know…" Molly started, carefully but determinedly, looking up and directly into Moriarty's eyes, "Lying naked on a morgue table says 'a little something' about _your_ personality. Perhaps a _death wish_…"

Moriarty snorted.

"The same could be said for you, mouse." He reminded, "Trying so desperately to get my attention…"

"You're the one trying to get my attention!" Molly almost shouted, almost laughed, "Prank calling me, knocking on my door, showing up here…"

"I read your little _'farewell message'_ to me on the blog." Moriarty countered, "I'm just returning the favor. So I wonder why someone like _you_ would want the attention of someone like_ me_? It's kind of like a little mouse darting out from the hole in the wall, knowing the cat is waiting right outside…_A 'death wish', 'perhaps'_? Do you just want me to _end it all _for you? Do you not have the _guts_ to do it yourself?"

Molly's breath caught.

(wasn't this what she had wanted? To get Moriarty's attention, to have him come after her and keep his promise? For something _not 'normal'_ to happen?)

She couldn't speak, she tried to, but she couldn't.

"Oh, Molly, my little mouse…" Moriarty sighed contentedly, "I could _just eat you up. _I really could. But I'd play with you first. I'd chase you around, catch your tail and then let you go a couple of times, toss you back and forth in my paws, scratch you up a bit with my claws…c_ut open your guts like you do to those bodies you examine…" _

He demonstrated 'cut open your guts' with his fingernail against the bare skin of his own stomach.

He left a white line along the fine trail of brown hair, scratching downwards starting from his chest.

Molly watched him until she realized he had just played the 'follow my finger' trick on her and she was staring at the thin fabric of the white cloth her wore.

Blushing, Molly quickly looked back up at Moriarty's face which was already smirking at her.

"…is that what you _want?_" he asked and it took Molly a few seconds to figure out that he was referring to _him killing her_ (although she was sure that his question did have a double meaning because with him there was always a double, maybe even triple meaning to everything he said).

"_No._" Molly answered, with forced firmness, to _all _of the possible meanings. She had to stop herself from stomping her foot since that would be far too cliché she was sure it couldn't be taken seriously.

Moriarty laughed at this, even going so far as to throw his head back for effect.

Molly regretted not stomping her foot, if he was going to over-act with everything he did, why shouldn't she every once and while?

"Are you _sure?_" Moriarty inquired.

And instantly Molly knew he had been watching her the day Lestrade had come over to investigate the break in.

"I'm _sure._" Molly replied, making sure that she made no visible indication that this revelation bothered her.

"Then what is it…?" Moriarty started, "…that you _do _want?"

For this Molly had no answer.

She stood silently rather than say she didn't know or make up some lie that Moriarty would throw back into her face.

Seeing that this was what Molly wanted to do, Moriarty laughed again instead of waiting quietly for her to speak.

"Alright, then." He conceded with a chuckle, "Call me when you figure it out. You've got my number."

He stood up at this and Molly knew to quickly look down at her shoes

She saw the white sheet lying there on the floor and Moriarty's bare feet step towards her.

Still staring persistently at the ground, Molly felt Moriarty brush past her on his way out.

Just as his lips her were at her one of her ears she heard him whisper, "Till next time, _little mouse_…"

And then he was gone, continued passed her and out of the room.

Molly did not turn around to watch him ago, but she could _feel _when he was gone.

She could_ feel_ that the feeling of _being watched_ was gone.

And with that Molly began her shift's work, trying to put this entire incident out of her mind.

(Although for the rest of the day she did wonder how a naked man managed to just walk out of a busy hospital without getting into trouble.)

* * *

><p><strong>Still hope that you still like it! <strong>

**Please review! **


	6. Known Secrets

**Hello, again and again thanks for the reviews that I'm hoping I'll continue to get!**

**This chapter is a break from Molly and Moriarty (although it does include both of them, just seprately) instead following Sherlock and Irene.**

**It may seem random and/or confusing and/or weird, what is said/ what happens in this chapter, but I promise you it will make sense eventually and is important to what happens later in this story.**

**It also includes case information from John's blog found at **** : / / w w w . . c o . u k / (remove spaces). **

**So please read and review (as always)!**

**(and as always, hope you like it!)**

* * *

><p><em><strong>(One day after 'The Great Game' episode and the same day as chapter four of this story)<strong>_

Irene Adler stood in her walk in closet (naked, again, after trying on a third outfit and deeming it unworthy) tossing through the rows of hanging dresses, trying to find something perfect.

Of course, Irene always took great pride, care and consideration into her wardrobe choices for any event, being it business, pleasure (pleasure being her business and business being her pleasure) or a boring day at home.

But this meeting was probably going to decide her fate and future, if the man she was meeting was really all people said that he was.

And so she had to take even greater pride, care and consideration into what she wore for this event.

"You know you'll look stunning no matter what." Kate said from the open doorway. She was already dressed in a nice black skirt-suit.

"Yes, _I know_," Irene agreed, not turning to face her assistant and continuing to search while still maintaining her lady-like poise and not falling into franticness, "But stunning is not what I _need_…"

"And what do you _need_?" Kate asked, any innuendo in the emphasis of the word 'need' residual from working for Irene for so long and completely unintentional.

It was sort of their dialect, given their line of work, to speak with automatic double entendres in sensually smooth or husky voices all of the time.

"I _need…_" Irene began, "…I_ need_ to be taken seriously."

"To look powerful?" Kate inquired.

"Yes, but not too powerful." Irene clarified, taking out a dress and holding it up to her body in the mirror.

In the reflection she could see Kate standing far behind her, watching her like she always did, with the awe of someone watching a goddess.

"I don't understand…" she said softly, as if she was referring to more than just Irene's words.

"I have to look powerful, I have to be taken seriously," Irene explained, "but not look too powerful, not taken too seriously…or else _he_ might see me as a threat."

She shook her head and replaced the dress back onto the rack with one arm, still standing at the mirror.

"Oh." Kate nodded, and then smiled, "Well you could always wear your _battle amour…_you've already got it on._"_

She could see her boss's face from the reflection smile widely and so she mirrored it and the two allowed themselves to giggle like school girls.

"Well that would give me my desired balance between being taken seriously but not too seriously…" Irene laughed, "It's a shame he wanted to meet in a public place. Can't really show up to King's Cross naked, now can I?"

"Well not legally," Kate responded, "But you would look stunning."

Irene laughed again.

After awhile of silent searching she spoke again.

"Do you think men know...?" she wondered, "How much effort we women put into dressing for them?"

"I didn't you dressed for _men_." Kate said.

"Oh,_ I_ don't." Irene replied, taking out another item of clothing from its hanger "Like everything else I do, I do it for myself. But, some women, most women _do_…and now here I am worrying about what to wear like it's the first date or something. Like I'm nervous, insecure..."

"Maybe you should dress like it then…" Kate suggested.

"That's brilliant!" Irene exclaimed, tossing the dress she held out of her hand up in the air and turning around to face her assistant, "If I look nervous, insecure, if I act scared and desperate…then he'll be more likely to help me. Because won't think that I'd try to_ use_ him in the way I've used my clients, try to _dominate_ him in the way I've dominated them…oh, Kate, you're so brilliant…!"

"Thank you!" Kate choked out, surprised by Irene's uncharacteristic expression of uncontrolled enthusiasm (rather than her usual subtle, refined, and always sensual behavior) and rare compliment, "You are too, Miss Adler…!"

"Of course I am." Irene smiled, "Now I'll need to borrow some of your clothes…"

* * *

><p>"It's so crowded, we'll never find <em>him<em>…!" Kate worried.

She scanned the train station and the masses bustling through it.

There were long distance travelers, commuters, loiters and uniform and undercover police officers searching for something (someone?).

All this didn't matter to Irene and Kate.

Their heels clicked against the floor as they hurried into the main hall, past various benches, stands, shops, and people.

They passed the window of a café chain built into the station and Kate almost did not recognize the reflection of the woman walking beside her.

No.

She almost did not recognize the woman walking beside her _correctly._

Dressed in a muted pastel shirt and cream colored skirt, both a size to big for her and so slightly loose fitting and not at all chic, the woman walking beside Kate in the window was Kate herself-

-two years ago. The shy, carefully polite, carefully closeted lesbian, from before Irene had found her and hired her, who attempted (and succeeded) at being exactly what was expected of her.

As well as Kate's old clothes, Irene was also wearing big sunglasses she had bought from a stand in the station as they walked around looking for who they were meeting, a scarf tied at her chin to cover her hair and the most minimal amount of make-up Kate had seen her boss apply in a long time.

All this not to be recognized.

Normally, Irene loved being greeted in public by her public.

She loved meeting fans of her _work_, being asked questions and for autographs or appointments.

She loved the spotlight.

But even more she loved being called out by opponents to her _work_, or just to _her._

She loved the challenge.

Today, however, she could not afford being spotted. This meeting was to be absolutely secret, as insisted by the mysterious man she had come here to meet.

It had taken her almost a year to get contact with him and even when she finally did it took multiple attempts (and one very crucial _connection_) for him to agree to meet with her.

"Come on, Kate, what are you looking at?" Irene asked.

She had gone ahead and then looked back to see her employee idling at a coffee shop window.

"Sorry!" Kate exclaimed and scurried after her boss.

"_He _wouldn't be in there." Irene said, gesturing to the café, and snorting; "An American chain? I'm sure _he_ has more class than that."

"Then why would_ he_ want to meet us here?" Kate wondered, "If _he_ wanted it to be somewhere public_ he_ could have chosen something a little less pedestrian…"

"Oh, Kate, don't be so stuck up." Irene laughed, "You sound like _the princess_…"

Kate joined Irene's laughter but mostly as an attempt to hide her cringe.

Irene's male clients never bothered Kate but Irene's female clientele always made her more than a little jealous.

Irene didn't notice this or at least pretended not to as the two continued walking.

"Where would_ he_ be, then?" Kate asked, in order to return the conversation back to a less threatening subject.

(As if the man they were meeting was actually less threatening than, well, anything. _He_ was said to be very dangerous…)

"I don't know." Irene stated pensively, she never liked saying those words.

"_He_ should have been more specific when_ he_ said 'let's meet at King's Cross'." Kate consoled.

"_He _said I would find_ him_ in the west side of the building…" Irene reminded, glancing around the high-ceilinged hall, "…and here we are…"

Among the many people going about their business, trying to catch trains, greet arriving relatives, get out of here as quickly as possible and get home, Irene tried to spot the ones that would most likely be _him._

She had no idea what _he_ looked like; his age, height, hair color, features. She had nothing to go on other than a gender and an area of a train station.

There was a bearded homeless man, seated propped against a wall being ignored by passerbys, sitting next to an empty coffee cup from the café. Not bothering to ask anymore for what he knew he wouldn't receive.

No, not _him._

_The coffee cup brand…_

There was a vendor at a newspaper stand, sitting on a tall stool and occasionally exchanging newspapers or magazines for coins or bills from passing patrons.

No, not _him_, either.

_The media available for purchase was too low-brow, celebrity-focused…_

_He_ was a sophisticated criminal mastermind, controlling a powerful criminal organization.

What would _he_ look like?

Irene looked harder, eyeing everyone male loitering in the west end of the station hall.

There was a very conspicuous-looking drag queen in heels so high that Irene herself would dare try to walk in them and a bright red wig who was cat-walking up and down the corridor waiting to see who would have something to say about his choice of clothing and lifestyle today.

Definitely not _him_.

_Too gay…_

"We're running out of time, Miss Adler..." Kate reminding, pointing up at the clocking hanging form the center of the ceiling, "Just call _him_ and ask where _he_ is."

"It doesn't work like that." Irene declared, "I don't even have _his_ number. I was connected by a mutual acquaintance to_ his_ phone."

"What are we going to do then?" Kate asked.

"I suppose I'm going to have to contact the mutual acquaintance…" Irene said tentatively, not really wanting to, "Maybe _he_ changed _his_ mind about the meeting…"

"Why _he_ do that?" Kate wondered aloud, frustrated-ly, "How could _he_ do this to you?"

"Calm down." Irene warned, "Let's not make a scene…"

Her eyes wandered from the fearful face of her assistant over to a man seated on a bench by a balcony.

He had a newspaper opened so that only the fingers holding it and his legs were visible, which he had quite loudly turned the page of only a second ago.

Now the page, no longer visible to him but now visible to Irene, was a very interesting headline.

Instead of news on the recent bombing and bombing attempts, or other world, domestic or financial news that the reputable papers were reporting on, this headline was about a foreign duke who, during at trip to England, had (allegedly) received the services of a certain dominatrix.

Her name was Irene Adler.

And she smiled, heading towards the man reading the slightly outdated newspaper.

"Come along, Kate." She called behind her as she approached the bench.

Kate dutifully followed Irene.

* * *

><p>"Thank you,<em> so much. <em>You give _such_ good service. "

Irene and Kate sat across from whom they were meeting at the small round table in the café.

They watched as Moriarty took the coffee from the barista, purposefully brushing his hand in the process, and thanked him in a tone that made Irene's _always innuendo_ sound completely innocent.

Normally baristas didn't venture out from behind the counter but after Moriarty had asked to have his coffee brought to the table, as if he owned the place, the barista didn't refuse.

_"In fact…" _Moriarty continued, grinning, "I think I'll give you a tip. Thanks, hun."

He took a fifty from hiswallet and inserted in between the waistband of the barista's pants and his tucked-in uniform shirt.

The barista, already very unnerved, didn't even bother to try to convince the customer that he could not accept the money and instead quickly retreated back to his post behind the counter.

Moriarty watched the barista as he hurried away and when he was gone, he turned back to Irene and Kate, sipping his coffee.

"Cute one, isn't he?" he commented, still grinning.

Irene did not respond, she was still staring at Moriarty in surprise, not only at whathe had just_ done but at what he _looked like.__

She had expected a silver haired, middle-aged gentleman in a thousand dollar suit and matching thousand dollar shoes, wearing stolen rings from exotic countries and an unidentifiable accent blend.

Moriarty was younger than Irene had imagined and much more normal looking; with unassuming brown hair and eyes, and standard khakis and un-tucked-in button down (albeit nicely fitted), and was Irish.

Irene had also thought that he wouldn't go to an American coffee chain, read trashy tabloids or be gay and he seemed to_ be making a point of proving her wrong._

"So let's get on with this, then…" Moriarty said, yawning and setting down his cup, "You're Irene Adler?"

He looked at Irene (rather than at Kate), who had taken trouble to conceal her identity and so must have been the person with the identity worth concealing.

"Yes." Irene confirmed, quietly.

"And you know who_ I am…?_" Moriarty asked, just to make sure, raising an eyebrow_._

"Yes." Irene repeated.

"I don't _believe _you." Moriarty challenged.

"What…?" Irene replied confusedly.

"You don't know who I am." Moriarty stated, "If you know who I am…_say my name."_

Irene's gaze darted out of the corner of her eyes to Kate whose face looked as perturbed as Irene felt at the moment.

Sure they had dealt with their share strange, creepy clients but that had always been on Irene's terms on her own turf.

What scared Irene about his behavior was not the deliberate blatant sexuality (which she was used to) but the fact that he seemed to intentionally be trying to unsettle her and not be taking this meeting (or her) very seriously.

"I can't. I'm not _allowed _to." Irene explained, "I was told—"

"And do you always do everything you're told?" Moriarty inquired, chuckling.

"No." Irene responded, and then added "But I do handle all my business with the utmost _discretion."_

Moriarty smiled widened at this. He was glad Irene had found her footing and decided to play along.

"I appreciate that." Moriarty said, "And I'm our mutual _friend _appreciates that even more. It's on his insistence, by the way, that I'm even _bothering_ to talk to you so you should thank him."

"I will." Irene agreed, and then turned to Kate, "Kate, remind me later to call-"

"Ah-ah-ah…_No names."_ Moriarty interrupted, holding up a finger almost to her lips, "'Discretion'_,_ _remember?_ Besides…I don't like to hear it;_ his name_...it just gets me so- _Oopsies!_ I'm digressing._ Back to the point_. Just because I'm only attending this little date with you because you-know-who set me up on it, doesn't mean you should go home and cry yourself to sleep about not being special enough to get my attention all by yourself. I mean, not many people _are._ In fact, I can only think of _one…"_

Irene and Kate glanced at each other, both of them regretting coming to this meeting.

So far this consulting criminal who was supposed to help people commit the perfect crimes with whatever weapons of opportunity they might have (incriminating photos and sensitive data, in Irene's case) was doing nothing to help them and everything to confuse them, creep them out and waste their time.

Irene's direct connection (the one who she could _also _not speak the name of) to him had warned her that his behavior could come off as strange but this was really beginning to annoy her.

Well, 'you-know-who', as Moriarty had put it, did tell her to contact her if she had any problems…

_So…_

"I'm in no danger of crying myself to sleep because you happen not to find me special." Irene interjected, "In fact, I don't care at all what you think of me or why you decided to meet with me. All I care about is getting on with this. I told you over the phone what I have and now I've brought it here with me. So are you going to help me or not?"

"That's what I came here to decide." Moriarty declared, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms behind his head, "I'm practically _dying_ to see just what would make a free-thinking, liberated woman of the twenty-first century, the tough, take lots of prisoners, dominatrix The Woman come running all the way to Mr. Handyman asking him to pretty-please fix it for her."

"The Czech government, The CIA, a sex slave trafficking ring involving multiple countries in the former Soviet block, the Chinese government, a sect of the terrorist organization Al Qaeda, and a local mob in Atlantic City, New Jersey." Irene listed matter-of-factly.

"My, my, Miss Adler, you've been a naughty girl." Moriarty said, both eyebrows raised in amused surprise, "I'm impressed. I mean, I've probably got contacts gunning for you myself, which might, by association, make me one of your enemies…"

"Hopefully not." Irene replied.

"Yes, you're right. I won't be so petty." Moriarty decided, "…So I take it all of your trouble is of _foreign origin…"_

"Yes." Irene nodded.

"That's going to change." Moriarty stated.

* * *

><p>"By the way," he said as Irene and Kate were getting up from the table at the café to leave, "You do know it was me who was behind that bombing in the apartment building a couple days ago."<p>

That explained the heavy police presence in the station.

"A confession?" Irene inquired, standing, "I thought we were practicing _discretion."_

"I have trouble sometimes." Moriartyadmitted with a grin, "Which can be trouble in itself given what I do…but sometimes I get bored, and when I get bored I like to play games. But games are no fun without an opponent…and opponents are no fun if they don't know who they're playing with and so…sometimes, I like to _reveal myself."_

"You're revealing this to me?" Irene asked, "Are you saying we are opponents?"

At that, Moriarty laughed so hard that he almost fell back in his chair.

"Oh_ god no!"_Moriarty exclaimed, still chuckling, "You? Never! You're not _nearly_ interesting enough…No, the one I revealed myself to…my opponent…is Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes?" Irene repeated, "That detective you said we'd need to decode whatever sensitive data I torture out of my prisoners or Kate retrieves from their phones and laptops while we're _busy? _That explains why you want him involved in this so badly."

"I _want _him because I_ _need __him." Moriarty confirmed, "He's the only one smart enough to figure out anything without silly little machines for decoding and running chemical tests and checking bullet trajectory and all that and he'll do it faster then them too…he's brilliant, he's amazing and so yes, of course, I want him. I'll _proudly_ admit that."

"I see…" Irene said.

"No, you don't, you really _don't…" _Moriarty countered, "but you will, Miss Adler, _you_ _will…"_

"If you want this Sherlock Holmes person so much…"Irene began, "Why not just go after him yourself?"

"I did." Moriarty responded, "Why do you think I blew up a building and strapped bombs to four people? I was waving my hands, screaming, 'ooh Sherlock, look at me!' And he_ looked._ And it was _wonderful_…But then, of course, _somebody_ had to go and get in the way, because somebody _always_ gets in the way, and I had to tell Sherlock 'bye-bye' even though I _really_ didn't want to."

"But you_ didn't_ kill him." Irene stated.

"No, but I almost had to and he almost blew us all up…" Moriarty explained, "And I have _you_ to thank for that. If it wasn't for you calling precisely when you did…how_ serendipitous_ was that? That you-know-who, who by the way, had only the day before requested that I kindly stop interacting with Sherlock Holmes and who had been unable to connect you to me before, 'just happened' to give you my private mobile number right at the exact moment Sherlock had aimed a loaded gun at a bomb at a nice indoor pool that's had excellent security cameras since a fourteen year old boy mysteriously seemed to drown during a race many years ago."

"So you're saying that-" Irene stopped herself before she used the name, "-our mutual friend wanted to_ save_ Sherlock Holmes life?"

"I'm saying that you-know-who wanted me to stop playing hide-and-seek with Detective Holmes and putting my clients, and my crimes and my _name _out there." Moriarty clarified, "Which I was perfectly willing to oblige to…until, of course, I realized I needed him for your case, which you-know-who himself so kindly referred me to."

"And so…?" Irene replied, raising an eyebrow, wondering just why she needed to know all of what she had just been told.

(The truth was she didn't. _Moriarty just liked to tell stories.)_

"All this to say,"Moriarty simplified, "Sherlock Holmes makes a very entertaining playmate. _Have fun."_

* * *

><p>The plan was simple.<p>

Simple to those with a mind like Irene Adler or the man who had developed the plan or the two brothers it who would unwittingly become involved in it.

To all others it was incredibly (but very necessarily) complicated.

And it all began with a text message.

_Greetings, your highness the Duke, this is Irene Adler (you might know me better as 'The Woman')._

_I would just like to inform you that I am in possession of quite a few photographs documenting your daughter and myself in various situations that could very well be labeled scandalous in nature. _

_I'll be sending a preview of one of them to this number. _

_Have a wonderful Easter. _

_-Irene _

It would take several weeks for the recipient of that message to have it verified quietly, during which he would have many serious conversations with his daughter until she, tired of his disappointment and the expectations of her status, fled the country to some resort where she could have all the kinky, lesbian sex she wanted without worrying about how it disrespected her and her father's titles.

Then the recipient's efforts and resources would be devoted to finding her and bringing her back to her duties of attending parties and charity benefits and waving from the half-opened, tinted windows of slowly driving limo processions rather than dealing with Irene Adler for the next month or so.

When the recipient's reluctant to returns daughter was finally retrieved, she would be married to fellow nobleman in a vain attempt to put a stop to all this nonsense and so then his efforts and resources would be devoted to planning and paying for the wedding and making sure his daughter didn't run off again in the traditional year long engagement.

And then the recipient would remember the text and picture he received and how for this whole time he and his people had not been able to do anything about them or The Woman who caused them this trouble.

The recipient would then turn to his chief-of-staff to find alternate methods of covertly taking care of the problem.

His chief-of-staff would then turn to his associate who had a minor position in the British government and major influence, Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft Holmes would be successful in fending off all others that happened to be after his new target, Irene Adler, which would temporarily take care of Irene's troubles of foreign origin.

But when he decided that he was too busy (lazy) to go recovering pornographic photos from a dominatrix himself, Mycroft Holmes would enlist the help of his little brother Sherlock Holmes…

…and the _game_ would begin.

* * *

><p><em><strong>(A few weeks after chapter five and midway through the events of 'A Scandal in Belgravia')<strong>_

Sherlock Holmes stood in the Crimes Against Property division's office in Scotland Yard…

(wearing his standard coat and scarf as he had just come in from the cold but not that ridiculous hunting hat that he had worn once hoping he would not be recognized instead of that becoming the most recognizable thing about him)

…waiting for the young, overworked office-bound officer to bring him the files on the recent burglaries related to the murder of college student and (wannabe) artist Pietro Venucci.

His sculpted busts of Margret Thatcher, ironic with devil horns, Sherlock did not consider art but the way Venucci had been stabbed to death, the pattern of stab wounds and blood spatter, now that was _art_.

(Sherlock also thought it was tacky that the statues were made of clay rather than iron as Thatcher was called by many the 'Iron Lady' and-)

_-Lestrade! _

What was _he_ doing here?

Lestrade was an Inspector Detective in the Murder and Violent Crimes division of Scotland Yard, not the theft…

He was coming out of an office, conversing with a uniformed officer while simultaneously reading information a file.

The file folder itself was a different color from most of the folders in this office indicating that for some reason it was _special._

The information in the file was being read by Lestrade for a least the third time given that Lestrade was able to carry on a conversation and walk while at the same time reading it which he would be unable to do successfully if this was the first time he was seeing this file.

There was no way Lestrade would read an important file like this one for the first time while multitasking.

And so it also must have been extra important if Lestrade was looking it over again and again.

Sherlock's curiosity was already peeked.

"Lestrade." He called, striding up to the detective, interrupting the other officer mid-sentence and standing in-between him and his target.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, like a thief caught red handed, "What are you doing here?"

He was hiding something, Sherlock could tell.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock asked Lestrade's question back at him, "You don't normally investigate crimes against property. Not that you normally do any investigating at all…"

"I'm just picking up a file." Lestrade said, trying to play off picking up the file like it was nothing while at the same time closing shut so Sherlock could not see it's contents.

"What file?" Sherlock inquired, trying to play off his question as if he was actually uninterested and just making conversation.

"It's classified." Lestrade answered, trying to sound as if he didn't know perfectly well that Sherlock would never just 'make conversation'.

"And just how is that relevant…?" Sherlock shrugged.

"It's relevant because you, a civilian, can't just go around sticking your nose into whatever classified files you want." Lestrade explained, much more frustrated with Sherlock than normal probably because he was hiding something, "Classified means classified."

"I'm a consultant." Sherlock reminded, "I see classified information all the time—"

"With permission." Lestrade interrupted, uncharacteristically curtly, "When we ask you to. And I haven't asked you to take a look at this file and I certainly am not giving you permission."

"This must be Sherlock Holmes, then." The uniformed officer finally spoke, looking Sherlock up and down and then turning to Lestrade, "Is he always like this? I don't know_ how_ you put up with him…"

"He doesn't 'put up' with _me_." Sherlock declared, "I 'put up' with _him_. And the rest of this _so-called_ metropolitan police service. _Out of the goodness of my own heart_ I put up with their _blind stupidity_ for the sake of solving the cases. If it wasn't for me—"

"Ha, ha, ha, joking again!" Lestrade blurted out an awkward, false laugh, "Sherlock's got his own sense of humor, he does…"

Lestrade's fellow officer didn't seem to buy Lestrade's attempted save of the situation.

"I'll talk to you later." He told him, turned and strode brusquely away back into his personal office.

Lestrade sighed, glad the crisis had been (semi) averted but still frustrated with Sherlock's antics.

"Sherlock you really—" he began but again was cut off.

"Who is it?" Sherlock asked.

"…What?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"Who is it?" Sherlock repeated, "In the file?"

"I don't know what you mean-"

"Yes you do. You've never been this clandestine when it comes to case files. The only reason you would be is if someone specifically asked you not to show me one, most likely their own or at least one involving them. And you, with that silly sense of honor, feel compelled to actually comply with that request and so you try to hide the file from me…. The only one who'd want the file hidden from me would have to be either someone that I know… or someone that knows me. And in the event that someone knows me who I do not know, I would very much like to become acquainted with that someone. Therefore; _who is it?_"

Lestrade took a moment to follow Sherlock's chain of logic before speaking.

"Like you said, I've got a sense of honor." He stated, "So I can't tell you."

"Oh, please," Sherlock scoffed, "Can't you just—"

"No." Lestrade refused.

Sherlock and Lestrade glared at each other for a second, stuck in a stalemate before they saw someone walk towards them.

It was the young officer Sherlock had asked to retrieve the files he actually needed for him.

Seeing that Sherlock was having quite the heated discussion with somebody, the office worker said, "I'll just leave these here for you", put the files down on the nearest desk and backed away.

"Don't you do it, Sherlock-!" Lestrade shouted when he saw the look in the consulting detective's eye but he was too late.

Sherlock, with one hand, had shoved the file out of Lestrade's grasp and with his other hand had knocked the newly delivered files off the desk.

Now all the files lay in a jumble on the floor, papers strewn everywhere.

"_Christ." _Lestrade cursed under his breath, "Did you_ really_ just do that?"

"I'm so sorry." Sherlock smiled, "I'll get those…"

Sherlock bent to pick the files up.

"No!" Lestrade warned, but Sherlock already had his long fingers on the different colored folder.

Lestrade quickly swooped down, his spine joints cracking in complaint, and snatched the folder out of Sherlock's hands.

"Ugh…fine…." Sherlock groaned.

He picked up the normal colored files, straightened them and their papers and then turned to leave.

Lestrade watched him go.

Once Sherlock was gone he decided that it was safe to open his special folder again.

Lestrade opened the uniquely hued file to see the standard hand-written write up of a burglary report…

…and a photograph of a bust of Margret Thatcher with devil horns.

Lestrade shook his head angrily.

He didn't know how the genius had done it but somehow Sherlock had switched the contents of one of the files he had requested with the one he wasn't supposed to have.

Lestrade slammed the folder closed and set it down on the nearby desk, hurrying out of the room to catch Sherlock before he got too far away with the classified file.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was standing in the hallway of Scotland Yard, flipping through a very interesting file when Lestrade came stomping up to him.<p>

"Hello again, Detective Inspector." Sherlock greeted, not looking up from the folder he held.

The others were stacked neatly next to his feet.

"You have no right—" Lestrade started.

"And_ you_ should know better than to try to hide things from me." Sherlock said flatly, shutting the file with one hand, "…and so should Molly Hooper."

* * *

><p>"Oh…Hi, Sherlock." Molly said when Sherlock entered the morgue, still in his coat and scarf (and <em>not<em> the deer stalker!).

She had recognized the sound of the way he walked into her morgue; echoing footsteps (further spaced than most people due to his long legs) against the floor (cleaned daily, not by Molly).

She was _trying_ to ignore him, _trying_ to be cold towards him.

_('Trying' _being the operant word.)

For some reason she was a bit mad at Sherlock (or, at least,_ trying_ to be) and so was not looking at him and instead continuing her examination of the corpse on the table.

"Hi, Molly." Sherlock returned.

"What can I do for you today?" Molly asked, her quiet tone of voice not nearly as polite as her choice of words, "Here for another body part? I've got some nice fresh ones. Or just to use the equipment? Whatever it is, help yourself, don't mind me, I just work here…"

(Okay, _more_ than a 'bit mad' and _definitely _trying to show it.)

She laughed then, forced and abruptly like a shattering glass.

(Maybe she wasn't trying to show she was mad as much as she had.)

It was a joke, what Molly had said, or at least it was meant to be veiled as one but the veil had been more transparent than she had _tried _for.

Just_ what_ was Molly mad about?

And just _how _mad was she _trying_ to be about it?

(John had told Sherlock several times how rude he had been to Molly but Sherlock (being so much smarter than John) hadn't_ seen_ it and if Sherlock didn't _see_ something it just wasn't _there_.)

Still, it _was _possible that both John and Molly had been mistaken in their eyesight and so had 'seen' (hallucinated) Sherlock as rude…

And so maybe that's why Molly was more than a 'bit mad'.

…_That and the fact that she was hiding something._

Over the past few months Molly had been the victim of a series of _pranks_ that she, Lestrade and Sherlock (despite not even being supposed to know about all this) all knew that Jim Moriarty was behind.

For whatever stupid reason Molly (and Lestrade) had decided to _try_ (and fail) to conceal this information from Sherlock and so far he had yet to deduce _why._

Sherlock wanted to know why and that was why he had come to the morgue (not to pick up another body part or borrow the equipment).

But Molly had no way of knowing that Sherlock new about what had happened to her (Lestrade wasn't going to admit that he had been unable to keep her secret) and so her reason for acting this way (mad) had to be something other than that.

"Actually, Molly…" Sherlock began, coughing slightly, "John and I, well mostly _John _since it was_ his_ idea, are having, well, sort of a Christmas 'get-together'…not a 'party', I _loathe_ 'parties'… just a 'get-together', as John calls it, and I was wondering if you'd like to go…"

Molly looked up.

"I'd love to!" she smiled, eyes wide in surprise. She was no longer trying to sound mad anymore.

Sherlock, on the other hand, sounded _nervous. _

He wasn't that practiced at inviting females_ anywhere_, even (and especially) ones that he was not interested in (and that was all but one of them so far) and even though he had his ulterior motives for asking Molly to come to the party (finding out more about Moriarty's antics and because John told him to), Sherlock still seemed awkward.

And that was because he knew Molly liked that.

She had fell (two types of figuratively) for that 'Jim from IT' character Moriarty had tricked her with and Sherlock knew she would fall for it again.

She must have had some kind of thing for shy, socially inept men (probably because they reminded her of herself (and psychologically speaking people tended to be more attracted to those who both looked and/or acted like them)).

And so Sherlock knew this would work on her.

"Um…good, then." Sherlock responded, "It the twenty-fourth, eight pm…it's at my—and John's-flat, of course. I assume you're available..?

"I am." Molly nodded, too happy at being invited to Sherlock's party to be offended by his assumption, "Eight, you said? I'll be there."

"Good." Sherlock repeated, "I'll see you there, then…I guess."

"Yeah, I'll see you there!" Molly affirmed, still smiling and nodding and wide eyed.

The conversation after that was awkward goodbyes (boring) and so when Sherlock finally escaped that, the morgue and Molly, he pondered as he walked out of the hospital just what Molly's motivation was for hiding the events with Moriarty from, and _trying_ to be mad at, him.

She didn't wear lipstick anymore, at least when he came around the morgue and was no longer flirting with, or displaying her obvious crush on, him and there must have been a reason for that too, Sherlock thought.

He knew she still had the crush, as she had to_ try_ to be mad at him and then regretted once she had and had been so ecstatic at being invited to his and John's Christmas 'get-together' and so lack of feelings wasn't the cause for Molly's change in behavior.

So what could it be...?

_Guilt. _

The reason was _guilt_, Sherlock decided.

Molly must have had a new boyfriend and that was why she was trying to avoid Sherlock as much as possible, that way her old feelings wouldn't get in the way of her new relationship.

That must be it.

Now the question was, of course, just _who_ was Molly's new boyfriend…?

* * *

><p><strong>Well you all know who<strong> _'he'/'him' _ **was. Why was Moriarty not referred to by name? Because Irene couldn't say it and, well, just cause I felt like it lol. **

**Now who was** _'you-know-who', _**Irene and Moriarty's mutual 'friend'? .._.You'll see..._**

**(...if you review lol) **

**So please review! **


	7. Petty

**Hello, again! **

** Shorter chapter because I'm tired and because I don't have an even number of reviews but still want to post lol...**

** Btw, today I visited this awesome college I'm gonna go to now and it had these two Sherlock posters**** in it's Writing House (or whatever it was called) one of "Richard Brooke" and one of "I Believe In Sherlock Holmes".**

**Today I also went ony my begging spree for reviews, contacting a lot of the people who've favorited/alerted this story and asking for reviews like the desperate person I am. **

**lol I'm cool.**

**But anyway, here's the chapter. **

* * *

><p>It was ironic that it was around Christmastime that the crime rate had its annual spike, with thefts from stores, fights over the latest merchandise and the occasional trampling death by a stampede of shoppers of the weaker gazelle in the herd.<p>

But more crime meant more work for Moriarty, right?

_Wrong!_

Jim Moriarty did not sully his soft (carefully lotioned against the dry winter air) professionally manicured hands with petty crimes like shoplifting and the petty criminals who committed them, no sir.

And so it was ironic that, despite the Christmas crime spree London celebrated, Jim was without work.

Well not 'work' work. Just _interesting _work.

Jim sat on his favorite bench by the small balcony (which was now adorned with shiny green and red Christmas decorations) in King's Cross train station (much busier than usual).

He scrolled through his phone, checking the forwarded messages from 'trusted' sources; job offers all just wonderfully holiday-themed.

'_Please, Mr. M help me steal this really pretty ring from a museum so I can give it to my girlfriend as a Christmas present.' _

(Romance _and_ Christmas cheer? _Next!_ )

'_Dear Mr. M, Is Santa real? If he is, can you kill him for me? He didn't bring me what I wanted for Christmas last year and I hate him."_

(Spoiled brat. Definitely not helping him. Maybe if he rots for another few years he'll become a school shooter or something. That could be interesting…)

'_Mr. M-I'm tired of all this Christmas crap! There is nothing to be all joy to the world about. This world sucks. I think it's time we remind everyone…'_

(Alas, the poor man choked to death on a candy cane just before Christmas. The world really does suck. Everyone=reminded. )

'_Dear Mr. M, I'll pay you a generous sum of money if you make it so I do not have to attend the Christmas party at my In-laws' place.' _

(In-laws' place burned down. Christmas tree caught on fire. Shame, really, no more Christmas party...)

Jim dismissed the petty criminal propositions of the petty people.

He had a few ideas of what clients he'd take on and what he'd do for them but most of that involved _hurting_ the people that were paying him which was decidedly bad for business…

Still some (all) of them were really just_ asking for it._

Jim chose to fight the temptation, however, and let the petty people wallow in their petty problems instead of teaching them a lesson about how one properly phrases a request so it does not backfire against one.

('tis the season, after all.)

He continued searching through his phone for a worthy task.

'_I know someone who knows someone who wants someone to get killed' _

How specific.

Jim rolled his eyes, wanting to kill the 'someone' (which one? (all of them)) and moved on to the next message.

Seeing who it was from, he didn't bother to open it and instead put his smartphone into his pocket.

Maybe Jim would take the holidays off...

* * *

><p>John and Mrs. Hudson hurried around 221b Baker Street, tidying up in preparation for the party that night.<p>

They were smiling and laughing even, despite the work and their backs aching from bending over to pick things Sherlock had gotten_ bored_ with off the floor.

There was a small but intricately decorated Christmas tree towards one corner of the room.

Mrs. Hudson went downstairs to the door when a delivery man knocked. She then returned to her renters' unit after she had signed the man's clipboard and absentmindedly placed the neatly wrapped box on the mantle before returning to cleaning.

Sherlock 'just happened' to be _conveniently_ out of the apartment at the time.

_Nothing to see here…_

Jim returned his head from how he had been craning his neck to stare into the second floor window back to its normal position and turned away from the home, walking away down the sidewalk.

* * *

><p>Scotland Yard was open even on Christmas Eve, probably was on Christmas Day too (those fools never <em>did<em> give up, did they?).

Jim strolled in, hands casually in his (Sherlock-style) longcoat's pocket and Santa-hat (this counted as a disguise, right?), nodding to the security guard by the door and winking at the secretary at the front desk.

He wandered until he found the room Lestrade's office was in.

Not seeing who he was looking for, he was about to leave when he heard his favorite name (which was actually, and most definitely not his own) spoken.

Pretending to check his phone (and seeing more messages from the person he wasn't going to answer), he loitered against the wall just a few feet down the hall from three officers standing around conversing before leaving for the day.

"I can't believe you're actually going to Sherlock Holmes' party!" Anderson scoffed.

He was really ugly. He looked like a frog.

"I can't believe the freak's actually having a party." Sally added.

She wasn't very pretty either but she definitely could do better.

"I'm not going I'm just _'stopping by'_." Lestrade clarified, "I'm heading off on holiday with the family, remember? Besides John'll be there and he's reasonable. It's more his get together anyway. I'm sure he'll keep Sherlock under control."

Jim contemplated what it would be liked to keep Sherlock Holmes 'under control'.

He decided that despite undoubtedly being quite difficult, it would be very satisfying if done _correctly._

"Are they gay together or something?" Sally scrutinized.

Not yet.

And not if _Jim_ got to Sherlock first...

"That's not any of our business." Lestrade said.

He must have thought they were.

"I heard that Sherlock was still a virgin." Anderson sneered.

Sally laughed.

"I'm not surprised!" she agreed, "Gay _and _a virgin. That explains _so much_…"

Perhaps why Sherlock refused Sally's Mollyesque advances towards him when he had first started consulting for the police leaving her offended and scrubbing the floors of a married man (ugly, made less money than her) whenever his wife was away?

No.

That was just because she was an idiot and wasn't worth his time.

"Do you two really just spend all day _gossiping _about him?" Lestrade snapped, "That is just so...so _petty_, for god's sake!"

Anderson and Sally were visibly taken a back by their boss's words, especially since he didn't normally use that tone of voice except with his children (_adorable_, by the way, Jim had checked).

"No—I mean-I was just saying…" Anderson finally replied.

"Well now I see whose side you're on." Sally huffed, trying to make her voice sound and her face look like it was a joke when it was obviously not.

Lestrade's voice couldn't decide between a sigh or a groan and an explanation or a retort.

"I'll see you both in a couple of weeks…" he settled, turning to go, "Merry Christmas…"

"Merry Christmas." Sally and Anderson returned, nodding to Lestrade and then watching him walk away.

Jim figured it was time for him to go as well, since Sherlock wasn't here either.

He followed a few paces behind Lestrade, the detective inspector even holding the door open a jar (without looking back) for him on their way out of the building.

* * *

><p>London was a big city.<p>

_Just where would Sherlock be….? _

Jim had been searching for him all day (not to bother him since he was not _allowed_ to, but just to _see_ him) and was still unable to find him.

(He supposed he could text him but then a certain _somebody _would immediately find out about that and then there would not be 'good tidings'.)

But Sherlock had to be back at his shared flat in time for the Christmas Eve 'get-together', didn't he?

Well it _was_ almost eight…

Jim was turning the corner back onto Baker Street after his long day of leaving footprints all over the snowy city…

(Sure he could have gotten his hands on a car (legally or otherwise) but he had nothing better to do (other than work) and he knew Sherlock would be walking too (somewhere))

…when he saw Molly stepping out of a taxi in front of 221b.

He paused.

_Molly was actually invited to Sherlock's 'get-together'? _

This was unexpected.

She was about fifteen minutes early and from the look of her hair and face she had spent at least an hour getting ready for this 'get-together' (that didn't mean she had done a good job of it though, someone should really help her with that…).

She was wearing a nice long coat which covered must what have been too formal a dress for the occasion and in her hands was a large bag of smaller gifts.

(The top, most carefully wrapped must have been for Sherlock.)

Jim, making sure to stay out of sight, watched Molly walk into the café (open late on Christmas Eve, must have been owned by the _unholy!(_-well, the owner did have one of his wives in Pakistan...)) next to Sherlock's apartment rather than her actual destination.

Molly had arrived early but wanted to appear as if she was _fashionably late._

She sat down far enough away from the window as not to be seen by anyone who would be at the party and nursed a coffee (black, a he knew she liked it, without any flavorings and so _boring_), impatiently checking her phone (presumably for the time) and waiting.

Jim considered texting her or even sitting down across from her at the table she had chosen but decided Sherlock was too nearby to risk it.

Jim had guessed 8:10 but Molly was being_ brave_ tonight and waited until almost 8:15 to get up from her seat in the café and go next door to the 'get-together'.

So badly, _so very badly_, Jim wanted to crash this party but he knew could not.

His phone was buzzing pocket again but he didn't feel like checking it.

He knew who the message would be from.

And Jim wasn't going to let that person ruin his holiday, wasting his time with so many _rules_…

(Don't go near Sherlock, he already knows too much. Don't disgrace _The Name_.)

Nothing was going to stop him from watching his favorite show _Sherlock._

* * *

><p>Molly was crying and then Sherlock calling her by her full name and kissing her on the cheek…<p>

(Lucky bitch (lucky _bastard_…? (_!_)) No, lucky bitch, definitely)

…and then he was checking his phone and then picking something up from the mantelpiece (the package Mrs. Hudson had put down there earlier) and then walking out of the room.

_What just happened? _

Jim didn't know but Sherlock did not come back into the living room while his guests were still there and so after about twenty minutes John said goodbye and happy Christmas to Molly and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson (all of whom asked if they could help and were politely refused) and then went to check on Sherlock.

* * *

><p>The café was closed by now but that didn't mean Jim couldn't find a comfortable seat by the window and have himself a nice cup.<p>

Outside, he watched the confused Lestrade and Molly as they exchanged confused glances.

It was cold out and dark and so luckily a cab pulled up pretty quickly.

"Here we go, thank god." Lestrade said, numb hand already on the door handle, "Let's share. I'll pay."

"Oh, no, I couldn't—" Molly started.

"Come on, it's Christmas!" Lestrade insisted, already seated in the taxi and beckoning her inside, "It's the least I can do. Besides, it's cold…"

"No," Molly refused again, standing shivering but firm on the curb, "You've got to get back home to your family, you've got that flight to catch tomorrow morning. I'll just get the next one."

"You sure?" Lestrade tried.

A flash of annoyance on her face threatened to respond but Molly did her best to conceal it.

(It was funny how she got the most annoyed at the person in her life that was the nicest to her.)

"Yes," She assured, "I'll be fine. You go on. Have a great Christmas, you're wife and kids too!"

"Thanks." Lestrade smiled, "You too."

(Oh, silly, Greg, Molly doesn't _have_ any family…)

He shut the cab door and it the car drove away.

Once it was gone, Molly was alone in the dim glow of the streetlights reflecting against the ice and snow.

And it was _so cold…_

Which wasn't helping her attempt to hold back her tears.

(It was no longer just that she didn't want anyone to see her cry, it was that she didn't want to cry _at all_.)

(It was no longer that Sherlock had rejected her (again), it was that she had been _so stupid _(again)…)

Her face was red, her nose was running and so were her eyes ever so slightly.

Molly had a cellphone. She could have easily called a cab.

It was then Jim realized that she was planning to _walk _home.

It was miles, not blocks and it was dark and icy and snowy and so cold.

_And she was all alone. _

Christmas time was a time of crime: Burglaries, robberies, shopliftings, _muggings…_

And as much as Jim _loved_ all the_ chaos..._

...it was_ not_ safe for Molly to walk home this late alone.

Jim imagined some of the petty criminals he really would rather avoid accosting poor Molly in some alley.

She would be frozen (even more so than she was now) in fear and would have no idea what to do.

He could just picture the scared, shocked look on her face.

No.

It wasn't _shock._

Molly wasn't stupid. She knew what could happen to a woman alone late at night in London (or anywhere, really).

Jim pictured the look again, clearer in his mind this time, it was fear (yes, of course) but not _shock._

No, Molly was _expecting _this…

And she didn't have 'no idea of what to do'.

Molly knew _exactly _what to do (give the petty criminals what they _wanted_).

She just wasn't going to do it.

And then the petty criminals would get _mad._

And when petty people (especially petty criminals) got _mad_ they took their anger out on someone, usually its _source._

Molly.

How many murder victims were killed simply because of robberies gone wrong, simply because of refusing to give robbers what they wanted…?

(Jim didn't know the exact statistic but he knew Molly did. He knew she herself kept a record of how many of those victims she examined. He knew she had just had one the other day…)

The look on Molly's face wasn't shock it was _acceptance._

(With a hint of gratefulness, even.)

_She wanted this. _

(She just couldn't do it to herself and so she needed _help._)

Jim was instantly offended.

If Molly wanted to die he, completely understood (he, himself, wanted to die sometimes and his life wasn't half as boring as hers was).

But if she was going to let some _petty criminal _off her in a botched robbery, _that _was another matter all together.

He had told her to call _him,_ to call him when she figured out what she _wanted_, when she wanted to _die_…

Why hadn't she _called?_

Jim never thought he'd ever be this bothered by a woman not calling him.

He was so _mad_ wanted to stomp right out of the café he had broken into, grab Molly (the source of his anger) from behind like he was some kind of petty criminal (like she _wanted_), snap her neck and kill her (like she _wanted_).

But she was already walking away, small footsteps forming in the snowy sidewalk behind her and Jim didn't want to give her what she _wanted _after she had done this to him.

No.

Jim downed his coffee (mixed with all the different brands and flavors and additives he could find) and stood up, smacking the empty cup back down onto the table, crushing it.

Stepping out into the winter night alone (so cold) he decided he would follow Molly and make sure no _petty criminals_ gave her what she _wanted _for Christmas.

* * *

><p>Really, Jim had been quite the gentleman, walking Molly all the way home that Christmas Eve.<p>

She didn't know this, of course.

…or maybe she _did._

Only once, just before she opened the door to enter her apartment building, did Molly turn around.

When she did, she saw no one.

But next to the footprints she had left in the collecting snow was another pair, following her path home.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry it was short but the next one will definately be longer (especially if you review (this means YOU))!<strong>

**So, on that note, please review!**


	8. Caring

**I just love all the reviews I'm getting! **

**Biggest motivation to write_ ever _and they make me soooooo happy I can't even describe it! **

**The more you review, the more I'll write and the faster I'll update! **

** This chapter Molly and Jim talk again and things begin to change...**

**Hope you like this chapter! **

* * *

><p>It was officially Christmas day (albeit only by a few minutes).<p>

Mycroft Holmes received the text first.

_Sir, _

_Police discovered the body of a Caucasian female, mid thirties, brown hair. It is being transported St. Bartholomew's morgue. _

_- A_

He had being waiting up for this, knowing well that if his younger brother predicated that Irene Adler would be found dead tonight that she most likely would.

* * *

><p>Lestrade received the text second.<p>

_Jane Doe found. On its way to the morgue. You've been asked for. Don't know why._

_-Dimmock _

He groaned when the phone vibrated but reluctantly check the text. He woke up and apologized to his wife (who was acquiescent and very sleepy) as he pulled on the same clothes he had been wearing and then his coat.

In the dark hallway he met his anxious children who were expecting Santa Claus and sent them back to bed before lumbering out the door.

* * *

><p>Sherlock received it third.<p>

_You were right. _

_-MH_

And fourth.

_There's a Jane Doe at the morgue that might be Irene Adler. Please come in and identify the body asap. Orders from the top. _

_-Lestrade_

He had also been waiting up for this (he usually stayed up that late (early) anyway but not _waiting_ (at least for this)).

Sherlock made sure John didn't hear him and wake up as he hurried out.

* * *

><p>Finally, Molly received the text fifth.<p>

_Miss Hopper, sorry to bother you at this hour but you are the only one not taking your vacation days. A Jane Doe that has been given priority autopsy status just got brought into the morgue. There must be a medical report submitted by tomorrow morning._

_Thank you. _

_-night-shift supervisor, St. Bartholomew's Hospital _

Her make-up (especially the red lipstick) was already wiped off, her hair was down again and there were no tears.

She rose from bed quickly and threw on a dowdy Christmas sweater and pants instead of the tight black dress she had been wearing (no need to try and be sexy) then covered them with her standard white labcoat.

Dutifully she rushed to work.

* * *

><p>...But it was Jim Moriarty, of all people, that received the text <em>last. <em>

(Even Molly got it before him, was he_ that_ unimportant? He takes _one_ day off and he was forgotten already…)

Of course, it really was his fault.

He had been ignoring the messages from a certain person all yesterday and almost continued it into this early morning…

…until he realized he had gotten a text at the exact same time he watched Molly startle awake and grab her phone from her nightstand through her bedroom window.

_Irene Adler is dead. _

_This could have been avoided if not for your irresponsibility. _

_When I contact you I do it for a reason. You should know better than to try to ignore me._

There was no 'signature' but Jim knew exactly who it was from and he'd pay that person back for this later.

First, he had to deal with this _development…_

* * *

><p>"<em>Fifty seven. Fifty seven of those texts, the one's I've heard…Do you ever reply?" <em>

John had been counting.

Counting the number of times Irene had messaged Sherlock.

Jim hadn't realized it had been so many...

Just_ what_ would Irene need to be talking to Sherlock about that much?

(It obviously wasn't what Jim had _asked_ her to do (get Sherlock to decode the information on her cellphone so he wouldn't have to ask _somebody else_) or else she would have given him something by now…)

So _what?_

"_Who is she? How did Sherlock recognize her from…not her face…?" _

Molly was _jealous._

But so was _Jim._

Just how did Sherlock recognize Irene's body from her, well, _body?_

Just _what_ had The Woman been _doing_ with him?

Whatever it was, if it involved being_ naked,_ it wasn't part of their plan and _dying_ definitely wasn't either and so Jim regretted ever making a deal with Irene Adler.

(Which he didn't even want to do in the first place, but _someone_ forced him into and so really that _someone_ was the one at fault and yet that _someone_ had the nerve to text him and blame him for it…)

Jim came into the morgue with a grieving family, too distracted by the loss of their son-in-law and daughter to a house fire in _their _house, caused by _their _Christmas tree.

Jim left them to sob in the waiting room, making his way over to a long hallway where he could see two figures stand in the dark.

A hospital employee stopped him.

"How did you know the victims?" he asked suspiciously.

"Man was a client of mine." Jim shrugged, "Shame, really."

The white uniformed worker nodded grimly and let Jim pass.

Jim stood at the door to the dark hall, watching through the window one man hand another a cigarette.

_Sherlock was smoking again…_

(But he had been doing _so well_, what with the patches and all.)

Irene's death must have_ really_ (_actually_) affected him…

Jim shook his head bitterly.

He would have laughed if he wasn't so _disappointed_ in (jealous of) Sherlock (Irene).

How could Sherlock care about someone like _Irene Adler?_

Sure, she was a dominatrix, more interesting than most of the little people, but certainly she was not on the same level as Sherlock and _himself._

And yet Sherlock smoked a whole cigarette just for her death.

He didn't smoke when all the _excitement _of the little (great) _game_ he and Jim played had ended leaving him _bored…_

Jim turned away from the window and the door, refusing to look anymore at Sherlock _debasing_ himself over some _woman. _

He trudged out of the waiting room just as the hospital employee came back in to escort the grieving family to their lost loved ones.

* * *

><p>Sherlock and Mycroft both instantly turned their heads when they saw motion from the window in the door at the end of the dimly-lit hallway.<p>

_Were they being watched? _

No.

It was just living people crying about dead people.

"Look at them…" Sherlock commented, "They all care so much…"

Yes they _did. _

He would not look away from the mourning family, back to the window where he knew he could see the snow outside and his own reflection.

* * *

><p>There were three people.<p>

Three people that _cared_ about Sherlock Holmes as much as much as Jim Moriarty did.

('As much' did not mean 'in the same way'. 'As much only meant 'as much', 'in the same way' as a pound of_ feathers_ weighs 'as much' as a pound of _flesh_.)

They were John Watson, Irene Adler and Molly Hooper.

John got the _quantity _and, as it seemed, Irene got the _quality_ of Sherlock's time and reciprocated _caring_.

But one of these three got _nothing. _

The same _nothing_ that Jim Moriarty did.

(Because as much as Sherlock loved the_ game_, he hated the _players. _And so Jim, one of the better 'players' in the 'game', got_ nothing_.)

Molly Hooper, out of the three people who _cared_, was the only one who knew what it was like to be Jim.

And Jim saw her there, standing alone in _her_ morgue, slicing open The Woman that did what she could never do (make Sherlock _care_) as if it was comfort of the coldest kind (but comfort all the same).

He watched Molly work for a long time.

She took the naked body apart, bringing the insides out and cataloguing them and their various characteristics one by one.

She was always this thorough. Even when it was _painfully_ obvious what the cause of death was (as it was in this case with Irene's body being so badly beaten), she always analyzed _her_ corpses down to their very veins, taking her time.

It was either because she had nothing better to do or because she _enjoyed_ it.

Maybe it was _both. _

Jim stepped into the room and spoke when Molly had finished sewing the woman's body back up.

"Spending Christmas with your loved ones?"

Molly gasped, dropping the tweezers which clanged on the cold metal table.

She looked up to lock eyes with Jim Moriarty.

"We, all get lonely, once and a while…" she said, as calmly as she could manage.

He _loved_ that she was making an effort (it was _adorable_).

"You were _lonely_?" Jim sneered, "How _sad._ You know, if you were _lonely_ you could have_ called_. You do have my number. I _told _you to call. You never did_._.."

"Neither did you." Molly replied.

She was referring to 'Jim from IT'.

"Yes I did." Jim insisted, "I just did it in _person_. And it was right here in this very room too, I was right there on that table, remember? _Little mouse_…"

Molly remembered, blushing.

It was funny how she disassembled naked bodies for a living without a _care_ just as long as they were _dead…_

…but when it came to the_ living_, naked man (even covered by a white cloth) was too much for her.

"You told me to call when I figured out what I wanted." Molly stated, formulaicly "And I haven't. That's why I didn't call. Cause I don't know—"

"I'm going to stop you right there." Jim interrupted, "You know how I _feel _about _lying_…You do _not_ want to _make me mad_. I do terrible things when I'm _mad_, Molly,_ terrible_ things…"

He grinned as if the synonym for 'terrible' was 'wonderful'.

Molly had no reactions to his words (vague threats), not the shiver that coursed visibly through her skin when she was afraid nor the wide eyes and little jump backwards of surprise.

At first it offended him (how dare Molly not be scared when he was trying to be scary!) but then Jim was chuckled.

"_There _we go, Molly, _there's_ _the truth_…" he began, "See, we both know _exactly_ what you _want. _You want to _die._"

"No I don't!" Molly denied, "I told you last time, I don't!"

"Oh _come on_, darling," Jim rolled his eyes "I may not be Sherlock but I'm not _stupid._ You walked home _four miles_ through the bad part of London in the dark of the night. _Alone._ What _else _could you have _wanted?_"

"…to be alone-"

"_No._ You've never wanted that."

"Well I wanted it then." Molly insisted, "I need time to think. I needed to be alone…Well obviously I _wasn't _since if you know about this you were probably_ following_ me…"

"Yes. I. _was._" Jim admitted, "But it's not like you actually thought you'd be _alone._ It's a goddamn _anthill_ around here, and it's crawling with disgusting little _bugs_. And you know they're all out there, they're everywhere. It's not like you thought there would be any _gentlemen_ out there at that hour on Christmas Eve..."

"But there was one, wasn't there…" Molly said, quietly, eyes for the first time leaving his, "A gentleman, I mean."

Jim laughed, approaching the table.

"So I am appreciated, after all. I was beginning to feel ignored…what with you not calling me and then wandering around the dodgy streets at nights hoping some thug would emerge from his alley to do your _dirty work_ for you, for whatever change you had in your pocket….there were some of them too, you know, _snakes_ hiding in grass waiting to _strike_…_I cut off their heads_."

Molly shuddered but did not look up at Jim, even though he was now only a foot away from her, with only the table and Irene Adler's dead, naked body in between them.

"Thank you." She murmured.

She could feel his shadow over her and how badly he wanted her to look up at him with scared, wide eyes.

"Oh, anytime, anytime. It's no problem at all." Jim dismissed casually, "You know I wouldn't let anyone harm my _dear little mouse_…except _me_, of course. And isn't that what you _want….?_ Molly. _Look at me_."

When she didn't he brought his fingers under her chin to lift up her face so they were once again locking eyes.

It wasn't the scared, wide eyes Jim had hoped for.

It was carefully, deliberately _nothing._

And Jim was tired of _nothing._

He was going to make sure he got _something _and since it wouldn't be from Sherlock (yet), it would have to be from Molly (who he was sure was tired of _nothing_, as well).

"You're wearing lipstick…at least you were before, you've wiped it off now…" he commented, "Was it for _Sherlock_? Did he notice it? Did he_ like_ it…?"

_Nothing. _

"I bet he noticed. The man does see _everything_, even into our _minds_…but I doubt he _liked_ it. There isn't much that Sherlock _likes_…"

Still _nothing._

"Lipstick matches the gift you gave him, well tried to give him…" Jim continued, trying harder, "He didn't _like_ it. He didn't _want_ it. Least not from _you._"

There was _something_, now, just a little bit of _something_.

It was wet and clear and pooling in the bottom lids of her unmoving eyes.

"She gave him a gift wrapped in red paper too, you know, and he _wanted_ it. She wears red lipstick too and he _likes_ it…"

"She?" Molly asked.

Her eyes watched Jim's eyes look down at the dead woman on the gray table.

"_She._" He repeated, smirking and nodding.

Molly sighed sadly.

"What's her name?"

"They wouldn't tell you? _He _wouldn't tell you?"

"No." Molly shook her head.

"_I'll_ tell you." Jim said, "I'll tell you her name, who she _was_, who she was _to Sherlock_…if you tell me how she died."

"You mean _you _didn't kill her?" Molly inquired.

Finally that _surprise._

Jim laughed again, he was always laughing at her.

"Why would_ I_ kill _her_?" Jim responded, as if the answer was apparent, "She was my client."

"Oh." Molly accepted, "I just thought…that since she was, _well_, close to Sherlock you might have…."

"Oh, no, Molly, I didn't have time for that." Jim scoffed, "I was too busy being your _gentleman_, killing all those _nasty_ criminals in this _big bad_ city for you."

"How many?" Molly demanded, suddenly, "How many people did you kill tonight!..._because of me_…?"

The last sentence was a guilty whisper following the accusing shout.

_Guilt_ was a funny thing because _guilt _was a type of _caring._

And _caring _always made the silly people who _cared _say and do silly things.

"Hardly matters." Jim chuckled, shrugging, "What mattered is how _she _died."

"…Poison." Molly stated, "She died of poisoning…"

Jim raised an eyebrow in genuine confusion, staring down at the body and then back up at Molly.

"She wasn't beaten to death…?" he asked, "But the bruising…"

"Post-mortem." Molly explained, "The bruising is all post-mortem. She died from being poisoned and then her body was beaten after she was already dead."

"…Oh, I _see_…" Jim said, considering this, and then asked, "What kind of poison?"

"I don't know yet." Molly answered, "I haven't done the tests yet. But I know it's something that takes a while. From the damage to her stomach and liver the poison built up in her system over a number of days and then killed her. Painlessly, too, from the lack of adrenaline. In fact it would have just put her to sleep and…"

Molly trailed off when she realized Jim was grinning at her.

(And it wasn't his normal sinister sneer or mocking smile, it was more of a pleasantly surprised and deeply enthralled look on his face (that was almost scarier than either of the first two since she had never seen it before.)

"Brilliant…" he said finally, that _look_ still lighting his face like the glow of hellfire, "Brilliant, simply _brilliant_…."

Guilt was a funny thing because _guilt _was a type of _caring _and _caring_ always made people do silly things.

Silly things like beating an already dead body to make it look like the person had been beaten to death instead of, well, simply just beating the person to death.

Silly things like poisoning someone so that they die painlessly in their sleep instead of by being painfully beaten to death.

_Guilt_ made a silly person _care _about making sure the girl they had to kill anyway at least didn't have to suffer.

(And poison _was_ a Woman's weapon…)

"Huh?" Molly inquired, confused as she always was when it came to Jim.

"Do you know who this woman was?" Jim questioned, excited.

"No." Molly said, "I already said-"

"Have you ever heard of the dominatrix Irene Adler?" Jim cut in.

"No." Molly said again.

"Well Irene Adler was a dominatrix involved in various scandals," Jim started, "politicians, royalty, celebrities, blah, blah, blah, all very boring…but she had dirt on all of them and so _then _the government started chasing her, and so did the Americans, and the terrorists and so did Sherlock Holmes and _that's_ when it got _interesting_."

"Okay…"

"That was all about six months ago and she's been running around and hiding ever since… But fast forward to about a week ago, the British Secret Service finally catches up to Miss Adler and are closing in…"

"So_ they_ killed her? The _government_?"

"Well that's what I thought. _Until now_…"

"What do you mean?"

"Isn't it obvious? The _bruising_, the _poison_…why would poison Irene Adler _and then_ beat her dead body?"

"…a fetish, perhaps…?" Molly suggested.

Jim snorted at this, which Molly had actually wanted him to do since it was a joke and now she could say that at least someone _appreciated_ her humor, even if he was an international criminal.

"I like how you think." Jim smirked, "But this is the government we're talking about. They wouldn't waste time or resources doing something like this when it's just not necessary."

"So _who_ then…"

"Irene Adler."

"But she's dead. Are you saying she killed herself?"

"_No_ and _yes_. In that order."

"_What?_!"

"I'm saying that Irene Adler _isn't dead_…. But she wants everyone to _think _she is. I'm saying that Irene Adler faked her own death. _This isn't her_."

Jim gestured to the cut and bruised corpse.

"But there's no way-Sherlock said-he's never wrong-!" Molly stammered.

"Yes he is." Jim disagreed, "Sherlock's wrong about a lot of things."

He looked at her and she took a breath.

"But _how_, then?"

"Miss Adler was careful. She's smart. You have to be to fool Sherlock Holmes. She found someone who looked enough like her and then made sure she looked even more like her, _exactly_ like her, right down to the measurements…"

"I would have noticed plastic surgery in the examination."

"Not if it wasn't _'plastic'_...or silicone, rather. There are surgeons who can do that, you know, good ones. It's_ very _illegal and _very _expensive but it's _so very useful_… as Miss Adler must have realized."

"But where did she get this… _body_?"

"There are always bodies for sale. Alive _and_ dead… It's a lucrative business. I know some people I can set you up with if you ever want to start making more than your abysmal excuse for a salary…"

Molly looked disgusted.

But as Jim was beginning to realize the emotions he saw from Molly were ones that she showed him on purpose.

"So this Alder person _bought _another woman, got _surgery_ done to her so they looked the same, _poisoned _her and then _beat _her _dead body_…_all to fake her own death and all those people chasing her off her trail…?_" Molly clarified.

"Yes." Jim nodded, "She's very _thorough._ I admire that in a woman…don't you?"

"…I…well…it's all terrible," Molly said, "but I have to admit, her plan…it _is _brilliant-"

"Oh, that's not what I was calling brilliant." Jim interrupted, "While thorough, neither Miss Adler, nor her plan, were _brilliant_… I mean, they may have fooled Sherlock Holmes, of all people, who was too busy _caring_ about his 'girlfriend' being beaten to death to notice that it wasn't _her_ and that the bruising was post-mortem even though he had done a very_ animated_ experiment on that only last year which I'm sure you remember….but as I was saying, The Woman may have fooled Sherlock Holmes but she didn't fool _us._ And _that's _what's _brilliant._"

There was that surprise again, in Molly's wide eyes.

And _something_ else too.

"Well_ you're_ the one who figured the whole thing out," Molly deflected, "You're the brilliant one. All _I _did was-"

"Tell me _exactly _what I needed to know to uncover Irene's plan." Jim stated, "Like I said, _brilliant._"

"….thank you…" Molly said, still shocked and uncomfortable but that _something_ was still there on her face.

(And that _something _was what allowed her to stand up to an admitted mass murderer… and also genuinely accept his compliment.)

Jim leaned over across the morgue table and the fake Irene to kiss Molly on the cheek right where Sherlock's lips had been only hours earlier.

"No. Thank _you_, Molly Hooper."

* * *

><p><strong>Uh oh.<strong>

**Molly just _helped_ Jim Moriarty... **

**PLEASE REVIEW! **


	9. Same Thing

**Hi! **

**Sorry for the delay in posting! **

**The Document Uploader was broken yesterday... :(**

**But now it's fixed so here's the next chapter! **

* * *

><p>Jim was already at the airport when he pulled out his phone to send a text of victory.<p>

_Irene Adler isn't dead, silly._

_You actually fell for that little body swap trick?_

_They do it all the time at magic shows…but I guess you never go to Vegas since you don't like to have any fun._

_Well, anyway, I'm off to visit the dead woman. _

_Merry Christmas ;) _

He didn't sign it, since the person he was text would know it was from him and never signed texts either (some bullshit like 'protecting the good name' or whatever).

The airport was even crowded at two in the morning on Christmas Day, since travelers were arriving from all over the world where it might have been a more reasonable hour at this time.

Most of the people bustling around the building were tired, jetlagged passengers or tired, jetlagged employees, or even tired-er security officials, eyes squinting because they were suspicious of everything…and because they were falling asleep.

And there were lines, oh god, there were lines stretching and curving for what looked like miles and what felt like hours…

…but _Jim Moriarty _didn't have to wait in _lines._

He strolled right past everyone and right onto the plane that was already waiting for him.

(He knew a guy who owned a good bit of stock in the airline…and in the airport…and in most large, wealthy companies in the world.)

As the flight took off and his ears popped like little explosions (the explosion metaphor made it tolerable), Jim watched shiny, contrasting London at night get smaller and smaller through the round window.

He knew he could have probably (actually) had quite a nice Christmas holiday with _playing_ with Molly Hooper (who had been of surprising help to him which is probably how Sherlock must have felt about John)…

…It was too bad he had to _work._

* * *

><p>It wasn't as if he had put a gun to her head.<p>

No. It was _worse._

It was the very fact that he didn't _need_ to.

Rigidly uncomfortable, Kate led Moriarty into the fancy bedroom of the fancy hotel suite.

He was dressed in an expensive suit this time, rather than the street clothes he had worn at the train station.

He had knocked casually on the door as if he was hotel staff and then had grinned at her like a _shark. _

Irene looked up from the book she was reading as she lay on the bed in her bathrobe.

"It's okay, Kate." She said warmly and then turned to Moriarty and demanded, "_What_ are you doing here?"

Kate nodded silently and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her just as she did back in Irene's London 'office' whenever there was a client.

But Irene and Moriarty both knew that she would be right outside the door, listening to the conversation inside, perhaps even holding a weapon in case things went bad.

"What are _you _doing here?" Moriarty returned, "I mean, why chose _Israel _for you_ '_afterlife'_? _There isn't even Christmas here…"

"It should be apparent." Irene said, closing her book, "It's the safest place for me. The British and the American governments both think I'm dead. They'll share that information with Israel and Israel is the one country I know the terrorists can't get to me in if they didn't get the notice that I _died._"

"…and why didn't_ I_ get that notice?" Moriarty inquired, approaching the bed, "…or the notice that you were actually alive…?"

Irene couldn't tell if he was angry or not, his voice was as playful as ever but that told her nothing.

Just in case he _was_ angry, she stood up.

"I just assumed you would figure it out." Irene stated, "And I was right."

"_Sherlock Holmes_ didn't figure it out…" Moriarty informed, "Does that…._disappoint _you?"

"Why would it?" Irene shrugged.

"Well you did text him…._ Fifty seven times_," Moriarty reminded, chuckling now and starting to pace, "…Not that he ever replied to you, of course. He obviously isn't _interested _but it's like you just can't take a _hint_."

Irene had no idea how Moriarty had found out about her messages to Sherlock or why he seemed to be _mad _about them.

After all, he was the one who told her to get both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes involved in this whole situation.

(And she was glad he did, despite herself, because Sherlock Holmes was the most difficult _opponent _she had and it had been the most exciting _game_ she had ever played….

….Never before had a man so enthralled her and Irene was now beginning to wonder if she was playing the wrong_ team_ (in_ both_ metaphorical senses), wishing that she could be on the same side as Sherlock instead of Moriarty.)

"Is_ that_ what you traveled all the way here to discuss?" Irene asked Moriarty.

"Oh, _no_, Miss Adler," Moriarty answered, shaking his head exaggeratedly, "I came here to _work._"

"Alright, then." Irene nodded, "Let's talk business. I'm sure you know _why_ I had to fake my own death."

"I'm assuming it wasn't just for the fun of it." Moriarty replied, rolling his eyes and sighing, "No one does _that _anymore…'cept me and _Sherlock_."

Irene ignored the comment crossing the expensively-decorated room to open the complementary safe in one of the large closet, but never turning her back on Moriarty.

Moriarty quickly memorized the safe combination she used, but judging from the way she hadn't tried to obscure his view at all Irene didn't care if he knew her hotel suite safe combo.

"The reason," she began, tossing him a folder "was because the joint British and American taskforce had discovered my location and increased their efforts to apprehend me."

Moriarty flipped through the contents of the folder.

There were photographs of regular-looking men in regular-looking attire, pointing cameras from behind trees and bushes at various windows of various hotel rooms.

Moriarty recognized the scenery from all over London and Europe.

"They tracked me to where Kate and I were staying in Paris. They pretended to be the paparazzi and gained access to my hotel room while we weren't there and ransacked it. They were looking for something and it wasn't my phone because they know I always keep it on me."

"Not _always_." Moriarty corrected, "Really, giving somebody a used cellphone for Christmas isn't the most tasteful move but _Sherlock_ didn't seem to mind. And at least he _got_ a Christmas present. You didn't get_ me_ anything…"

Again, Irene ignored the comment.

She thought Moriarty '_came here to work'_ so why did he only want to talk about Sherlock Holmes?

"Anyway," Irene continued, "I figured out what they were looking for. It was a code. It was really small on the laptop I downloaded it from and even smaller in the picture I took of it with my phone…but the man, a glorified pencil-pusher who once every two weeks indulged in a _de-stressing_, said it would save the Western world. And it was _his_ name the operatives were cursing as the one to blame while they searched the room."

"How do you know who they were cursing?" Moriarty asked, raised eyebrow and looking up from the folder, "I thought you said you weren't in."

"_I_ wasn't." Irene confirmed, "But the maid _was._ And I know what she _likes_."

Moriarty laughed.

"You seem to know what everyone _likes_ and yet somehow you've managed to make a lot of people _very mad_."

"Well you know how high-ranking bureaucrats are, always so _flustered_…Some people just _like _to be _mad_."

"And what does Sherlock _like_?" Moriarty inquired, eyebrow still raised and once again directing the conversation away from his stated purpose for it, "_thirty-two, twenty-four, thirty-four?_"

It was the combination to her safe, which she had let him see.

But how Moriarty could have known the significance of those numbers and that Sherlock too knew their significance frightened Irene.

She didn't let it show, however.

"No, I think Sherlock _loves_ it." She said and then started to tug at the rope holding her bathrobe together, "Now what about _you_, Mr. Moriarty…"

She said his_ name_.

She would turn this around on him yet…

"Why, Miss Adler, I'm flattered you'd offer…" Moriarty feigned, "But I thought you knew…_I'm_ _gay._"

"In the course of my _career_ I've come to learn that nothing is ever so _absolute_," Irene continued and continued to open her bathrobe, "…especially when it comes to _sex._"

"Did Sherlock teach you that?" Moriarty asked.

In his voice was the same personal offense that existed in the voices of straight men who got personally offended that attractive lesbians didn't just exist for their viewing and/or threesome pleasure.

But at the same time, there was nothing in his voice that existed in the voices of those same straight men would hated gay men and hated even more the implication that they themselves could be gay as well.

It confused Irene but as she had said, nothing was ever so _absolute._

"You're asking if Sherlock and I had sex." Irene stated plainly, "If you didn't _care _than you wouldn't have _asked…_ But then again, if you didn't _care _you'd be thinking _straight_. You'd realize that, of course, we _didn't_. The same way that if Sherlock didn't _care_ that I was dead, he'd realize that, of course, I'm _not…_.does that _disappoint_ you, Mr. Moriarty, that Sherlock didn't figure it out because the cold, unfeeling 'ice-man' _cared_…are you _jealous_?"

Moriarty was quiet and for a second Irene thought she had _won._

But finally he spoke.

"….Sherlock's not the _'ice-man'_…He's just a _virgin_. And _that's_ how I know you and Sherlock didn't have sex. So _no_, I wasn't asking and _no_, I'm not _jealous_..."

Moriarty snorted, leaning forward, closing the folder, and even his eyes, leaving it on a table and then dissolving into childish snickering as he walked towards Irene.

Even though his eyes looked closed Irene made sure not to step backwards implying fear.

However, she did pull her bathrobe tightly closed.

"Grow up, then!" Irene spat boldly, when Moriarty got too close "You said that you came here to _work!_"

Suddenly his eyes were open, staring into hers, and his hand was on the bathrobe tie.

"I _did._" He confirmed, "But I'm not going to let myself be the only one that has to _work_ on Christmas."

At this point Irene didn't know whether she should allow him to touch her like this and call his bluff….

…or push him off of her and call hers.

(It was this sort of quick, difficult decisions that came with playing the _game_, that decided the winners and losers.)

"I'm not taking any clients at the moment." Irene said, "I'm _dead_."

"_No, you're not_." Moriarty defied in a sing-song voice, "Besides, you offered…"

"But it doesn't _work _like that." Irene declared, slapping his hand away, "_I _don't work like that. If you want me to _work_, I'll _work_. Even on Christmas, even on _you_…But if you want me to _work on you_, you have to _like the way I work_."

"I want you to _work on me_ the way you'd _work on Sherlock_." Moriarty clarified, rubbing his slapped hand, "I want you to show me why he _likes_ you so much…"

"You know that nothing ever happened between us—"

"Yes it _did_." Moriarty interrupted, "It wasn't _sex_ but something _did_ happen between you and Sherlock. _Something_ better... at least in your and his opinions, _something _that caused you trust him with your phone and him to take up smoking again at your _'death'_."

His voice was an enraged shout and then a calculating whisper.

Irene couldn't decide which was worse (nothing was ever so_ absolute_).

But she knew he was _mad,_ and that he wasn't _playing _anymore. And it was his face that told her, not his voice or his words.

"It was a mental connection, a 'meeting of the minds' one could say," Irene explained, "How do you expect me to _show _you that…?"

She wrenched herself out of Moriarty's grasp and to go and pick up the folder he had set down from the table as an excuse to put some distance between herself and the consulting criminal she definitely regretted hiring.

How _dare _he just show up and_ bother_ her like this?

He had no sense of professional courtesy.

He knew how to _play_ but he didn't know how to _work_.

(But then again, for Moriarty, they were the _same thing_.)

"Show me what you'd do to him if it were him here in this room with you instead of me." Moriarty ordered, "We're the _same_, Sherlock and I. It really wouldn't be that different, you can pretend I'm _him_, if you want to, you can even use his _name_…"

"You're crazy." Irene dismissed, trying to sound less alarmed than she was.

This situation was rapidly deteriorating.

"No, I'm a _genius._ And so is Sherlock. Does that make him crazy, too? I'm sure some people would say that. I mean, what's the _difference_, anyway, _genius and insanity_? It's all the same to me…nothing is ever so _absolute._"

"Insanity is when you do the same thing over and over again—"

"Expecting a different result? You mean like texting a man fifty-seven times and expecting him to respond when so far he never has…?"

Moriarty raised both eyebrows and laughed.

Irene cursed herself for getting poisoned by her own fangs.

"Don't feel bad, Miss Alder." Moriarty consoled, "That's not really crazy…that's just the scientific method. Repeated trials and all that…a lot of _genius _has been _worked_ with the scientific method…"

And now 'genius' was not just a synonym for 'crazy' and 'insanity' but for 'magic' as well.

"…and this is just an _experiment._" He continued, advancing towards her, "I'm just _experimenting_ to see if you're _actually worth_ the amount of _caring_ Sherlock has afforded you. If you're _actually worth_ him dulling his crazy, genius, _beautiful_ mind for."

"You'll do no such thing!" Irene exclaimed, assuming a battle stance.

Moriarty didn't _seem _to have any weapons on him but that didn't mean he _didn't._

She knew she could temporarily fight him off but who knew if he had goons outside or a sniper trained on her?

Irene and Kate had packed up and left the country pretty quickly after she had faked her death, rushing off to Israel.

Irene didn't have with her any of her s_upplies_ that could have been of much use to her in this situation.

_And where was Kate anyway? _

She must have been outside, hearing everything that was going on between Irene and Moriarty.

Shouldn't she had run in to break it up or went and got hotel security or _something_…?

Irene looked towards the closed door, considering calling out for help.

Moriarty saw this and must have realized what Irene did (that Kate should have _done something_ by now).

And then there were gunshots.

A long series at first and then returned fire and then undeterminable pitter-patter like loud rain.

Moriarty and Irene's head slowly turned away from the door and their eyes met.

The question in each of their pairs of eyes answered the other's question.

_(Does he know what's going on out there?) _

_(Does she know what's going on out there?) _

_(He doesn't know.) _

_(She doesn't know.) _

What _was_ going on?

Irene and Moriarty could hear the stomping footsteps (definitely military boots) running through the rooms and halls of the suite, right towards where they were.

"Do you happen to have a gun?" Irene asked.

"Why would _I_ have a _gun_?" Moriarty replied as if her question was ridiculous.

(And it _was_, in his opinion, 'ridiculous'. He didn't carry or use _guns._ (He had _people_ for that.))

"I don't know, maybe because you're a _criminal._" Irene stated, "And a _fugitive_."

"So are you." Moriarty reminded.

"No, not _anymore_." Irene countered, "Now I'm just _dead._"

She realized then that she probably _would_ be 'dead' if she didn't figure out a way to get away from not only Moriarty but the marching military men that would arrive any minute now.

Irene at first tried to keep her composure with a deep breath but then decided that there was no longer any point.

"_My god_…" she muttered, hand on her brow, "They're going to _kill_ me…they've probably already killed Kate, this is all _my _fault….Oh, Kate, _I'm so sorry_…."

Jim looked at Irene, completely confused as to why she was speaking to a woman (Kate) who was not in the room and worrying more about that woman (who was just her employee) being already dead then her own impending (real) death.

He was a (criminal) genius but there were still things he didn't understand.

He decided, though, that Sherlock must not have understood it either and so it was all fine.

"Well this was a nice visit…" Jim said, hearing the footsteps draw even closer, "But since you're next _clients_ are here for their appointment, I'll be on my way…"

He started towards the floor length window to the balcony, leaving Irene (who didn't even acknowledge his goodbye) to stand alone in fear and guilt.

But when he opened the see-through sliding door (stories high, but he could climb down using the balconies), Jim found himself being blown backwards by the rushing wind and pounding noise.

A helicopter.

Its lights were on him now, too, bright in the darkness outside, as he stood up and squinted at it.

At that same moment, Jim turned away from the window and the helicopter when he heard the door to the room burst open and the footsteps come galloping in, brandishing semi-automatics.

Standing in formation, a group of five men were in the hotel room now, causing Irene (who could also hear and see the helicopter) to shout.

"You'll never recover the information if you kill me now! I don't _have_ the phone! I've left it with a trusted contact! If I die, he'll release the information to the public!"

"Miss Adler…" one of the men began, slowly approaching her.

"Get back." She warned.

The man stopped.

His weapon was lowered and so were the weapons of the rest of the men.

That's when Jim realized that this team was not the joint British-American taskforce sent after Irene or any of the militaries, militias or gangs that wanted her phone, and her dead.

Irene should have realized this too, Jim noted…

(since this team was (obviously by their dark gray uniforms) working for the mutual acquaintance who had directed her to him)

…but she was too busy _caring _about Kate being dead and herself about to die to realize that Kate (probably) wasn't dead and she (definitely) wasn't going to die.

Jim laughed at this, walking away from the glare of the noisy helicopter to stand in between Irene and the man who had spoken, (probably the leader of the five man team working for the mutual friend).

Once he was closer he found that he recognized this man.

(Average height, muscular build, one of those faces and auburn hair that had once been cropped short but now was in the process of being grown out.)

"Don't I know you…?" he smiled, "You're…Mr.….um…"

"…-…Sebastian Moran, sir." The man finished.

There was a slight hesitation at the beginning of his sentence. _Like he was used to putting a rank before speaking his name._

(Military, maybe?)

Then he had addressed Jim as 'sir'. _More likely out of a force of habit than because of whom he was working for._

(Military, again.)

"Oh that's right!" Jim remembered, "_Mr. Sniper-Guy_! From the pool! _Sir, yes, sir_!"

Jim thought the mocking rendition of the military phrasing would at least make Moran cringe but the sniper had no reaction whatsoever, continuing to stare blankly at Jim and Irene.

"Yes, March thirty-first," Moran nodded, "back in 2010."

There was a complete lack of emotion in his voice and eyes that _bothered _Jim (since he _thrived_ on _bothering _people).

"You _know_ him?" Irene suddenly blurted, "Is he working for you? Did you _plan _this? Who are they and what are they doing here? _Where's Kate?_"

"I dunno…" Jim shrugged.

"Ma'am," Moran addressed Irene, "fifteen militia members were deployed by the terrorist organization Al Qaeda to this resort. My orders are to protect you and so we terminated them. Now I am to escort you-"

"Where's Kate?" Irene demanded.

"Safe." Moran stated, "She's already in the helicopter, ma'am. You'll see her soon. Please go with Four and Five."

He gestured to two of the men who he had come in with.

The two split off from the formation and approached Irene.

"Four and five?" Jim chuckled, "That's too funny. Your boss has got you all numbered, then! He always _did _like numbers more than people…"

It was then that Irene finally realized who the team that had burst into her hotel suite was working for.

Instantly relief rushed over her.

"Alright." She agreed, deciding it was safe to go with them, "…May I put on my shoes first?"

Four and Five and Moran all nodded.

Irene hurried to the closet, pulled on what was probably her only pair of flats and went back towards the men.

"Follow us." Four said.

Irene followed Four and Five towards the hovering helicopter by the balcony.

Jim watched the helicopter turn to accommodate the three stepping in and indeed Kate was already inside.

He saw Irene throw her arms around her secretary, shoulders shaking in a way that told Jim that she was probably sobbing.

Tears of joy.

One of the bigger oxymorons and yet it _existed_ since nothing was ever so _absolute._

(Jim, of course, didn't understand this. He thought it was silly to cry when one was happy.)

Four signaled to Moran, who returned the signal, and then helicopter was clear to depart from the resort.

Once it was gone the two other operatives (probably Two and Three) turned to Moran, who nodded.

Wordlessly they had been ordered to 'clean up' and so filed out of the room to do just that.

Jim wondered how many bodies lay dead in the halls of the hotel.

"It was three minutes and forty-six seconds since shots were first fired." Moran noted, "It takes hotel employees only one to get through to authorities and so the Israeli police are already on their way. It will them less than fifteen minutes to get here and it's already been four. It will take us two minutes to get to ground level if we run down the stairs. We have to vacate the premises immediately."

_Oh, so he was good with numbers…_

No wonder he had been hired.

"_We_?" Jim repeated, grinning, "I didn't know there was a _'we'_…"

"My orders are to protect you, as well, sir." Moran stated evenly, still no reaction, "No can know that you were here or involved with any of this. You need to come with me, sir, and return to London."

"And how will _'we'_ be getting there?" Jim inquired.

"The same way you got here." Moran answered, "_Anonymously._ The plane is already waiting for you at the airport. We have to go now, sir."

Moran turned to leave the room but stopped and turned back once Jim did not begin to follow.

"Now, sir." He said again.

"…_make me_." Jim taunted, rocking back and forth on his heels like a child.

Still Moran's face and voice were devoid of emotional reaction however _his words…_

"There is only one person who can make you do anything and it's not me…but I do work for him. So let's go."

…_So this guy had a personality after all_...

Jim grinned and started to follow Moran out the door.

"You know it's really quite rare," he said, "what with all his connections to defense contracting firms, who are more than willing to lend them their _human resources_, for your _employer_ to _use_ the same man _twice._ In fact, I think this is a first. Is that why he calls you '_One'_? You must be _special_…"

Jim watched Moran's back as he walked behind him out of Irene's suite and down the hall, hoping to see some kind of shudder like he had seen when Irene had sobbed into Kate's arms or even see Moran turn around in frustration, or anger, or some kind of emotion he couldn't control.

But Moran gave Jim _nothing. _

"He sent you to watch over me, didn't he? To _spy _on me…" he continued, "That night at the pool…I just happened to need a sniper and then one conveniently appears, fully qualified and highly recommended by my… '_trusted source'… _Oh, I should have _known_. I really should have _known…_.You're the one who told him about me kidnapping the good doctor and throwing the flash drive away into the pool and _letting Sherlock Holmes go_…_that's_ how _he_ knew to call me. That's how he knew to get _Miss Adler_ to call me_." _

Still _nothing_.

(And it was all true, of course.

Moran's first introduction to Jim's way of 'working' was when his employer sent him over on Jim's request.

Jim's request had actually been for twenty snipers, with twenty sniper rifles but Moran's employer had refused and all Jim had gotten was Moran and one sniper rifle.

This didn't bother Jim for too long, however, because when Moran arrived Jim had already hired nineteen other men and given them all laser pointers to wave around as if they were aiming weapons.

(And Moran, of course, didn't actually _need _a laser pointer attached to his gun. He always hit his target.)

Moran's employer had told Moran to contact him if anything at the pool went wrong and so when Jim tossed the flash drive with the Bruce-Pardington plans into the water, Moran texted his boss.

He texted his boss again when Jim told Sherlock Holmes and John Watson that they could go free.

This was why as soon as Jim left the room he got a phone call.

And Moran texted his boss when Jim returned and Sherlock Holmes threatened to detonate the bomb.

Which was why Jim got _another_ phone call.

And after Jim and Sherlock and John had all left, Moran fished the flash drive out of the water and gave it to his employer as planned.)

"Tell me why, then…since you obviously know him _so well_ or else you wouldn't still be working him for almost _two years_ when most of his boys only last _one job_….does he always have to _spoil my fun?_"

_Nothing. _

And on the ride back to the airport and right up to the plane with its engine already running Moran still said _nothing_, despite Jim's best attempts to get him to talk.

* * *

><p>Once Moran had made sure Jim was <em>safely<em> on the plane ('safely' meaning unable to cause any trouble that could come back to _bother_ his employer) did he respond to his words.

"Mr. Holmes was about to shoot the bomb. You all would have blown up and died. So he told Miss Adler to call….My employer wasn't trying to spoil your fun. _He was trying to protect you._"

Jim listened to Moran's explanation quietly for a moment, no expression his nodding head.

And then, again, he smiled.

Sinking down into his comfortable first class seat, Jim closed his eyes and leaned back.

"_Same thing_." He sighed.

* * *

><p><strong>So...<strong>

**Enter Sebastian Moran! lol**

** and just who is he working for?**

**I think it's becoming a little more clear now...**

**I've decided to take some liberities with this story (well it is fanfiction), liberties inspired by my best friend Wikipedia. **

**I'll explain later. **

**For now, PLEAS REVIEW!**

**Thanks! **


	10. Fire and Gasoline

**Hello, there, again! **

**Only two reviews for the last chapter but I'm posting anyway...lol**

**I just want reviews to be divisble by 5 (or more) per chapter basically lol **

**And again, THANKS SO MUCH FOR THE REVIEWS! **

**I really do appriciate them, in fact, they are what my life revolves around right now lol. **

* * *

><p>There was a special exhibition room in the morgue reserved for displaying more than one body at a time on identical long metal tables for comparison purposes.<p>

It was no different than the other sections of the morgue, just bigger.

Mostly, it was used for victims of disasters with multiple casualties and victims of serial murderers.

The latter is what Lestrade suspected he was looking at.

The three corpses, all male, all already autopsied, all killed on the same night (last night) and found within the same area, had much in common.

All three of the men had criminal records, petty crimes like theft and burglary had been unemployed, for long periods of time, and had had their throats slit from behind.

The first two details definitely indicated serial murder.

The fact that the victims were all of similar demographic implied that the killer had a certain 'type' that he was targeting.

And the facts that they had criminal files on public record and were all within the same five mile radius the night they were murdered, gave the killer opportunity to kill them.

What was missing was a _motive._

Why had these three street thugs gotten their throats cut?

(_Sherlock _would know, of course, but _Sherlock_ wasn't _here_.)

The door opened quietly and Molly practically tip-toed into the room, staring at her clipboard rather than at Lestrade or the three bodies.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, confused as to why Molly was acting shyer (than usual).

"I was told to come in here…" Molly murmured, still not looking up, "They said someone wanted to discuss my findings for these victims. I didn't expect it to be you. I thought you and your family were going-"

"I got called back." Lestrade declared (which was _partially_ true), then quickly changing the subject, "Did you find anything interesting, anything that could lead to a suspect?"

"…No." Molly shook her head, gulping, "There was…_nothing._ They were all clean."

"I see." Lestrade replied, "And what about the lacerations?"

He gestured to the red line across the mens' necks.

Molly forced herself to raise her head and glance, before quickly turning back to her clipboard.

"Severed the corroded artery, they bled out in a matter of minutes…" Molly said, wincing like she never usually did when looking at the dead, "…it was…_quick._"

"Well then the man certainly knew what he was doing." Lestrade commented, "…it all was the same person , you think, killing them? The same knife?"

"Yes." Molly nodded, still no eye-contact, "The same…"

"I don't get it, then…" Lestrade mused, more to himself, examining the bodies closely, "Serial killers kill for pleasure…they _enjoy_ it. They like to see their victims _suffer_…"

Molly winced.

"…but killing these men so quickly…" Lestrade continued, stroking his brow as he tried to think, "They don't see it coming, they don't _beg._ They can't shout or cry out in _pain_… there isn't that much _blood_…"

Molly clutched her clipboard in both hands, tighter and tighter.

"I just don't get it…" Lestrade repeated, "These kills were efficient. Killer wanted them dead, that's it. He didn't enjoy the kill. So why, why would he even kill at all…?"

(It all confused Lestrade so much. He had always thought of himself as a reasonably intelligent man-_-until he had met Sherlock Holmes._

And then ever since he felt_ inadequate_ not being able to figure out in weeks what Sherlock could in minutes.

These complicated questions, so open-ended-seeming to Lestrade, would probably all have simple, definite answers to Sherlock.

He really needed his help…)

At this moment Molly sucked in an involuntary deep breath.

Lestrade turned to look at her.

"Is everything alright, Molly?" he asked.

"I'm fine." She answered quickly, looking up at him for a second and then looking back down.

It was almost like she was _ashamed…_

"….you sure?" Lestrade supplemented, cocking his head to one side, trying to catch Molly's eyes.

Molly tensed.

But she looked up and directly at him.

"_I'm sure_." She declared, with anger that surprised Lestrade.

"Alright, alright!" he exclaimed, hands raised in defense, "I was just asking!"

"I'm sorry!" Molly immediately apologized, and then added, "It's just…these things, they _bother_ me. It _bothers_ me when I can't find any evidence. I don't want the murderer to get away with it. I feel like it's my _fault_…"

"Don't feel that way, Molly, it's okay." Lestrade consoled, "The only one at fault is the one who killed these poor blokes. Besides, they're just common crooks themselves. No one will miss them, anyway. The Yard'll just file it away as a cold case and we'll move on to the next one."

Molly nodded weakly, as if she wanted to agree with him but couldn't.

"Do you think…" she spoke up, after a few moments, "Do you think that…Sherlock could, um, solve this…?"

She hesitated, as she always did, before saying Sherlock's name.

Lestrade pitied Molly for her crush on the consulting detective who treated her like crap (when he chose not to ignore her).

The poor girl just seemed to have terrible luck with men.

(Hell, her last boyfriend had been _Jim Moriarty_.)

"…Sherlock he…he hasn't left his flat since…" Lestrade explained, trying to find a way to mention the reason (the woman (whoever the hell she was)) without causing Molly any further woe, "…um, _Christmas._ And he's not answering his phone. We could really use his help but he's…not feeling well, I suppose…"

"…oh." was Molly's only reply.

Before Lestrade could speak his cellphone began to ring and so he pulled it out of his coat pocket.

It was Sally.

She was telling him about some drug dealer who had just turned himself in at Scotland Yard, demanding police protection and Sherlock Holmes, saying that he had gotten mugged by Moriarty.

Lestrade told Sally he'd be right there and hung up the phone.

He then turned to Molly, who had (thankfully) only heard half of his conversation (and he had been careful not to mention any names as to spare her feelings).

"Sorry," Lestrade said, "But I've gotta go. New case. Thanks for all your help."

He waved slightly and hurried out the door.

Molly said nothing and watched him go.

(She always did have good hearing.)

* * *

><p>"Don't come back here. I run a clean club. I don't want any trouble with the law. You wanna sell that stuff, take it to the street." The nightclub manager said.<p>

And so he did.

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his vintage style jeans jacket the drug dealer trudged away down the sidewalk.

It was dark and it was cold and most of all it was _undignified. _

He had been the most popular (and yet still one of the fringe-y rebels) all through primary and secondary school because of his _'career'_. Invited to the best parties, friends with everyone…

And now look what he was reduced to.

Pounding the pavement like some _street thug._

Some said he would have gotten a real job by now (he was even one of them) but the free-time and freedom were too comfortable to give up and the money was still good and so the drug dealer had started selling out of the various nightclubs in downtown London (upscale ones, only, of course).

But it wasn't like before and the older he got, well, the older dealing got.

_This was the last straw._ The drug dealer decided. _This is the last time and then I'm done. I'll just sell the rest of what I have and then I'll get a real job. _

It had been a slow night.

Not many people had been attending the establishments the drug dealer frequented to distribute his product and not many people were on the street.

As he turned the corner, away from all the restaurants, bars and clubs, the drug dealer finally remembered why.

_It was Christmas. _

He was working on Christmas!

For god's sake, this _would_ be the last time, it really would.

Squinting through the dark, the drug dealer scanned the streets for any sign of a potential customer.

He only had a few ounces left anyway, should be easy enough to sell.

Finally, after blocks of walking and seeing no one, the drug dealer finally set eyes on the figure of a male approaching.

The figure had his hands in his pockets as well and seemed to be in an equally bad mood.

_I know just what would cheer him up…_the drug dealer thought.

He figured that any man alone early Christmas morning, just before sunrise, would definitely be interested in getting high.

"Hey, man." The drug dealer greeted, once the nearing figure was close enough to hear him.

The man looked up.

And the drug dealer froze.

"What?"

That was Jim Moriarty!

Sherlock Holmes had warned the drug dealer (and everyone else he knew) about this dangerous criminal (via mass text).

"What?" Moriarty repeated, this time much more annoyed than he had already been, seeing that the drug dealer was just standing there gaping at him.

Moriarty really didn't look like much. He looked like he could be any average guy on the street.

It was hard for the drug dealer to believe that he had been behind the deaths of over thirteen people just six months ago and probably countless other murders and crimes after that.

But if Sherlock Holmes said that Moriarty was, _Moriarty was._

"Nothing, man…" the drug dealer muttered, trying to play it cool.

He quickly turned around and hurried up the sidewalk the way he had come, his pace increasing with each step until he had broken out into a run.

Reaching into his pockets, past the bag of merchandise, the drug dealer felt for his phone.

He had to tell Sherlock!

But as he began to dial the numbers he heard footsteps other than his own.

The drug dealer looked behind him to see that Moriarty was chasing him down the street!

And he was gaining on him.

"Help!" the drug dealer shouted out.

But no one was around to hear.

The drug dealer felt a hand on his shoulder catch him and spin him around.

"No, don't kill me!" he begged, and then thrust the contents of his pockets towards Moriarty, "Take anything you want! You can have it all! Just don't kill me!"

"You think I'm some kind of petty thief?" Moriarty replied in mock offense, "You know I should really kill you just for that…"

The drug dealer amended his previous assessment of Moriarty.

Moriarty may have looked like any regular bloke but his _face_, the way he _moved _it and his _voice…_

He was unable to describe articulately why but the man just plain creeped him the hell out.

The drug dealer couldn't help but shudder and it wasn't the frigid air.

"No!" the drug dealer cried.

"But I won't." Moriarty stated, sighing, "So I guess it's just your lucky day."

He let go of the drug dealer's shoulders.

"Thank you!" the drug dealer exclaimed, "I promise I won't go to the police or—"

"Oh, I_ want_ you to go to the police." Moriarty countered and then grinned, " I want you to go to the police and give them a message from me. Can you do that for me, _man?"_

The drug dealer nodded.

"Okay. _Good._ I want you to go to Scotland Yard and ask for Detective Inspector Lestrade….you getting this?"

"Uh-huh." The drug dealer affirmed.

"Ask for Detective Inspector Lestrade and tell him…tell him _from me_, and I want this _word for word_, too…"

The drug dealer nodded.

"Tell him from me…" Moriarty paused dramatically, "…_merry Christmas_…can you remember all that?"

"Yes. I will. I'll tell him." the drug dealer confirmed.

He was very afraid and very confused but he agreed all the same.

He attempted to turn and rush away, but once again, he felt that hand on his shoulder spin him around.

"Oh, and one more thing…" Moriarty added, "…if you screw this up, I _will_ kill you. Got it?"

The drug dealer nodded and Moriarty released him to run away into the early morning towards Scotland Yard.

* * *

><p>Outside of the interrogation room, beside the one-way window, stood Donovan and Lestrade, watching the drug dealer sit at the table fidgeting.<p>

"Do you believe him?" Lestrade asked, glancing at the drug dealer skeptically.

"I'm not sure." Donovan admitted, "He says Moriarty just came up to him, beat him up and robbed him…but he has no injuries."

"He's lying about that, then." Lestrade decided.

"Yeah." Donovan agreed, "It could be some kind of trick. You know, to get that _freak's_ attention again…"

"Could be." Lestrade nodded, considering the possibly but then added, "You shouldn't call him that, you know. Sherlock's been a big help 'round here and—"

"I know." Donovan acquiesced, "I know. But what do you think about this dealer?"

"I think even if his story's a lie… he's scared." Lestrade evaluated, looking over to the drug dealer again through the window, "He's not lying about that."

Indeed, the drug dealer was sweating nervously and shaking, even.

"And you tried calling the fre-Sherlock about it?" Donovan checked, correcting her terminology midsentence.

"Yeah." Lestrade answered, "Several times. No answer…"

"And you're not going over there?" Donovan questioned.

"No." Lestrade stated, "What's the point? If Sherlock doesn't want to be bothered, he won't be bothered. Besides, I can't force him to work a case. He's a consultant, not my employee…"

It was a little joke, just to lighten the mood.

Donovan laughed, only a little though and the mood did not lighten.

Lestrade continued.

"And I don't think he's feeling too well either. That may be why he's not answering my calls. I got through to John though. He said Sherlock's not left his room since…"

Lestrade trailed off not wanting to inform Donovan of the reason for Sherlock's _depression_ as it would just add to her gossiping about the consulting detective.

"Since? Since what?"

"Christmas Eve. All the people and the bright lights, put him into one of his moods or something, it did…you know how Sherlock is…"

Donovan nodded and blinked in response.

"So what do we do…?" she began.

"…without him, you mean?" Lestrade finished, interpreting the question she was too embarrassed to asked.

"I dunno…" Donovan shrugged, refusing to take ownership of Lestrade's interpretation.

"Me neither." Lestrade said, "Me neither.."

* * *

><p>Jim sat in the luxurious lobby of the expensive London hotel.<p>

Visiting the desert resort in Israel where the pseudonymed ghost of Irene Adler had gone to stay put Jim in the mood for _class_, rather than the rather _pedestrian _train station he usually hung out at.

And so now he was lounging on an asymmetrical couch, half an eye on the nearby television, the other 3/4s of his two eyes on the phone.

It was not_ his_ phone.

(Much too out-of-date and had way too many useless apps.)

It had been a Christmas gift from the drug dealer he had met on the street earlier that morning (along with a small bag of white powder. The man had been _very generous_).

Scrolling through the phone, past pages and pages of useless text messages…

_-I need 2 get hi. Can u hook me up? _

_-u gonna b at da place on 4th tonite?_

_-You have three days two pay me back. _

…all incredibly _boring_ (and poorly spelled).

Except for one.

_FWD: all contacts._

_This is Sherlock Holmes. _

_This is a warning._

_The man responsible for the bombings is named Jim Moriarty. _

_Jim Moriarty is a 'consulting criminal' who is involved in many of the crimes that take place in the UK and around the world._

_I am looking for him. _

_Attached is a picture message of Jim Moriarty._

_If you see him contact me immediately._

_Do not interact with him at all under any circumstances. _

_He is extremely dangerous and will kill you without a second thought if he so feels the urge. _

_Pass this message on to everyone._

Jim snickered to himself.

So that was why the drug dealer had run scared fromhim on sight.

He moved on to the next message.

It was a blurry but recognizable image of himself that he didn't even know Sherlock had taken.

No.

Sherlock hadn't taken this.

This picture was a downloaded still from security footage.

Where?

It was the hospital.

Jim could tell from what he was wearing, it was back when he had been playing that gay nerdy guy Jim from IT.

Molly's boyfriend.

Molly.

She had been such a help to him yesterday (if she hadn't come in and did the post-mortem exam, finding that the body double had been poisoned, then Sherlock would have identified the body and Jim would have been believing (wrongly) like everyone else that Irene Adler was dead).

And then Jim never would have become reacquainted with Sebastian Moran who apparently now was the right hand man of _somebody_ very important…

Yes, what an interesting eight hours it had been.

But now Jim was bored.

He opened the text messaging application of the drug dealer's cellphone.

(He wondered why a drug dealer even_ had_ Sherlock's number…)

Carefully typing a text message, Jim couldn't help but crack up once he had finally hit the send button.

_Hey, man._

_U said u wanna get high_

_I got the stuff_

_When & where do u wanna meet to pick it up? _

He had sent the text to Sherlock's number from the drug dealer's phone.

(…now he would find out just _why _the dealer knew Sherlock.)

But once that was done with and Jim was done laughing, he was bored again.

It was still Christmas and he was determined not to work until after New Years and so now he needed to find _something _to do…

Sherlock?

No. (Not directly at least. He was _forbidden_…)

And the text message would hopefully cause some disturbance (or hopefully even a reply)…

_No! Not good enough! _

Oh, god, why did Sherlock have to be off limits?

Jim's world was so empty without him, so boring, so cold…

Jim Moriarty was a _fire._

He constantly needed to be fed.

Logs were alright most of the time but what Jim really needed, what Jim really _wanted_ was _gasoline…_

Sherlock Holmes was gasoline.

But Sherlock was restricted from him at the moment…

(Jim wouldn't want a bucket of water doused on his fire, now would he? (And it was that bucket of water threatening him to stay away from the gasoline.))

So where was some nice firewood…?

Molly?

She was probably still at work (she wouldn't have bothered to go back home after coming in at twelve that morning) and he had already visited her in the morgue so many times it had now (as of twelve that morning) gotten _boring_…

Scotland Yard?

Already done.

The drug dealer was delivering the message.

(It was such a tiny little thing, it really meant nothing, but the big deal the Yard would make of it was what was funny about it.)

So what to do, what to do…

Jim's eyes darted to the television screen.

There was some sort of commercial playing about an upcoming post-Christmas sale.

Boring.

Jim turned and stared across the lobby into the next room.

It was a wide, dimly-lit dinning room that was mostly empty due to it being an off hour.

To one side of the rows of elegantly decorated tables was a bar.

No one was there drinking at it and the only ones occupying the area were the black haired bartender in her mid-twenties and the redhead teenaged busboy.

He was speaking to her animatedly, one arm holding a plastic container of plates to be washed, and she was leaning against the wall pretending to pay attention to what he had to say to her, but really listening to the radio that was humming quietly in the background.

Jim could overhear their conversation, well bits of it anyway.

It went something like…

_tired of these damn forgeiners. Tourist and they blah blah stuck up when they're rich and blah refugees blah blah welfare _

_and they're taking all our jobs blah and don't even know English blah blah_

_yeah and blah blah blah blah those Jamaicans, what's wrong with them and the gypsies _

_blah blah and those maids from Russia or blah blah, they're all whores _

Jim snorted, hearing this.

It was probably all true, what they were saying, albeit exaggerated but for two dropouts…

(Jim could tell from the way they spoke as well as the fact that they had been chosen to work on Christmas and so must have had the worse working conditions that came with a lack of education)

…to be complaining about it instead of doing something about it (and Jim respected everyone's opinions as long as they _did something _about them. And he was always willing to help) was laughable.

Jim stood up, putting the drug dealer's phone back into his pocket, and sauntered over to the bar.

When he got closer he noticed that the bartender was actually furnishing the busboy with glasses of what didn't smell like water (despite looking a lot like it).

"The boy, he is too young to be drinking, no?" Jim said in his best euro-trash accent.

It was a blend of Eastern European and Mediterranean.

"Do you need any help, _sir_?" the bartender asked in the most begrudgingly polite accent all her own.

It was perfected over years of work in the customer service industry.

"The boy needs help! He should not to drink!" Jim insisted.

"Fuck off!" the busboy cussed, turning to Jim, "I'm eighteen!"

"You look young—"

"I said, fuck off!"

"Sir, are you even a guest at our hotel?" the bartender cut in, leaning over the bar to position herself between the angry busboy and Jim.

"Ya." Jim nodded.

The bartended smiled widely and falsely.

Jim matched it with his best stupid grin.

The busboy and the bartender exchanged frustrated and disapproving glances quickly and then turned back to their new customer.

"I just try to do the right thing." Jim added.

The bartended grimaced, "I see", she acknowledged and took the busboy's shotglass away, stowing it under the bar, "Sorry for any confusion."

The busboy groaned and rolled his eyes.

Finally he said, "If you're not gonna order nothing, then go mind your own business."

The bartender shot him a warning look, telling him that that is not the way to talk to the customers.

"Would you like to order anything, sir?" she asked Jim.

"Ya, ya." Jim answered, nodding and smiling, "I would like to—I would to order….how is it do you say….?"

The busboy and the bartender glanced at each other again, eyes then staring at the ceiling.

This had to be the stupidest guest they had ever encountered.

"Oh! I know! I would like to order one water!"

The bartender's falsely friendly face finally fell at this, all the way down into a frown.

She shook her head and sighed as Jim sat down at the barstool in front of him.

"Here." The bartender said, sliding a glass of water across the bar to Jim.

"…and the cost?" Jim asked, pretending to go for his wallet.

"It's free, you fucker…" the busboy spat, also shaking his head. He then looked at the bartender, "I'm gonna go take these back." He gestured to the container in his arms.

Jim watched the bartender watch the busboy trot away through the swinging double doors into the kitchen.

Once he was gone, Jim really went to _work._

Sure, the bartender was unreceptive and short at first…

…but after Jim had told her his stories of his exciting life as a poor kid fleeing from thugs during the break-up of the Soviet Union who grew up to be a wealthy, international business man…

..she was _hooked._

The rags-to-riches bit _resonated_ with her lower-class upbringing and desire to be wealthy.

And when Jim told her that he was very rich, travelled to exotic places all the time for business (and loved to bring along beautiful women) and then tipped her with a hundred…

…suddenly Jim's strange accent started to sound _sexy._

So Jim and the bartender were laughing together when the busboy returned, now without his tray.

Seeing this, the busboy's face was almost as red as his hair.

(Which Jim realized now was dyed. Why? Because the bartender kept a small magazine cut-out of a handsome ginger actor near the cash register.)

"Lemme get another shot." The busboy said, sitting down at the stool next to Jim.

"Oh, but you are too young to drink!" Jim reminded, still in euro-trash, chuckling.

The bartender giggled.

"He's cute, isn't he?" she gestured to the busboy who was still red and now glaring.

"Ya! Oh, ya!" Jim agreed, eyeing the boy but then looking back to the bartender and eyeing her, "You are too…"

The bartender giggled again.

"You still just drinking water, then?" the busboy interjected.

"Very healthy!" Jim exclaimed, taking and long gulp from his cup.

"Why don't you get it to go?" the busboy suggested sharply, "I'll get room service to take it up."

"Don't be rude—" the bartender began but was cut off.

"No, is okay." Jim said, standing up, "The boy has good idea. I decide I do want room service.

"…you do?" the bartender inquired, raising an eyebrow confusedly.

"Ya, ya." Jim confirmed, "Room service. I want one water to room service. Room 221. _You'll bring it up?" _

(And yes, 221 was an obvious reference. Shame the hotel didn't have lettered sections.)

"I'm sorry, I can't." the bartender apologized, "I'm on shift…"

The busboy grinned victoriously.

"What time do you get off?" Jim asked.

"She doesn't work for room service!" the busboy declared, "It's not her job to take it up, no matter when, no matter what!"

"My shift ends at two." The bartender told Jim and then glanced over to the clock on the wall.

It was still only about ten thirty in the morning.

"I didn't ask when your shift ended…" Jim explained, smirking, "I asked when you '_get off'_."

"You don't talk her like that!" the busboy shouted, jabbing a finger towards Jim.

He was too red in the face to notice that Jim's accent was slipping.

"Let it go—" the bartender attempted, placing a hand on the busboy's shoulder.

"No, I won't just let it go, the guy's an ass!" the busboy roared, shoving off the bartender's touch which he normally so coveted, and then turning back to Jim, "Get out of here, man! I'll call security! You don't talk to her like that! Get out of here!"

"Alright, alright. I go, I go…" Jim conceded, strolling away, "…but I'll be expecting that room service…."

* * *

><p>The bartender couldn't believe she was doing this.<p>

But she had so many good reasons (money, to 'get off', money, world travel, money, boredom, money…).

And her excuses (she had the cup of water in her hand).

She stood in front of room 221 and knocked gently with her free hand.

"Room service…!" she called in.

"…Come in…!" the accent eventually answered.

The bartender used her staff cardkey to open the door and step into the hotel room.

She walked past the bathroom and the closet, noting the luxury that those who could afford nice hotels lived in, before turning the corner into the alcove where the bed was.

The glass in her hand fell to the floor.

Water and ice cubes spilled everywhere.

Jim loved the look of shock and horror on the bartender's face, eyes and mouth so wide open…

He himself, of course, was grinning like a maniac and on the verge of terrible laughing induced seizure.

He was stretched out leisurely on the king sized bed, propped up against the plush pillows with one hand behind his head.

He was completely naked, reclining on top of the covers.

And so was the teenaged busboy, lying soundly asleep on his stomach next to Jim.

The bartender could not find words.

"You got off shift at two..." Jim explained, shrugged, "But he '_got off'_ at _one_….and then again at one thirty—"

"My…god!" the bartender finally screeched.

As she stomped out of the room, Jim called after her.

"_Oh baby_, please don't be _mad_ at me. I just couldn't help myself! You _did _say he was cute…!"

* * *

><p>The room was sectioned off by yellow tape that clashed with its elegant furnishings.<p>

Lestrade lifted it slightly to duck under and step into the room where various uniformed police officers were already inside dusting for prints and picking up and bagging pieces of evidence.

He passed the bathroom, and the closet, turned and saw the bed.

That's where the boy was.

He was only just a teenager, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and he was lying naked and dead on the bed.

He had overdosed.

Some were saying he was a guest at the hotel, others that he had snuck in and others that he was an employee (no one had yet identified the body).

It always bothered Lestrade the most, the deaths of children (he refused to think of his son at this point).

And so for a moment he just stood there staring at the boy in hopelessness.

Who was this boy?

What had happened to him?

_Why?_

Finally, Lestrade reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone.

He dialed a familiar number and received a familiar sequence of rings before getting the voicemail.

Sighing, Lestrade left his message.

"Hello, Sherlock. It's Lestrade again. I know I've been calling a lot lately and I'm sure you're very busy so I'm sorry to bother you and I'm sorry for what you're going through but…we just really need your help here and so please. Sherlock, please, if you could just-call me back. When you have the time. Thank you."

* * *

><p><strong>Molly POV next chapter! <strong>

** I know it's been a while lol **

**PLEASE REVIEW!**


	11. Puzzle Pieces

**Hi! **

**Hope everyone is still reading and enjoying my story!**

**It's Molly POV today, so yay! lol**

**No Jim though, sadly, he'll be in the next chapter though so don't worry...**

* * *

><p>The security office of St. Bartholomew's hospital was on the first floor.<p>

And it was just Molly's (bad) luck that the same security guard that she had embarrassed herself in front of a couple weeks ago, seeming crazy when she frantically insisted that a body from the morgue had gone missing.

"May I help you, ma'am?" the guard asked, already skeptical when he opened the door for Molly's knock.

He sat back down in his swiveling chair.

Attached to the walls were several screens that displayed different areas of the hospital in black and white.

"Um…actually…" Molly began, stepping into the room (which was much more state-of-the-art than she had expected it to be) for the first time instead of waiting for the guard to come outside, "…that's the security feed, isn't it?"

She pointed to the screens, specifically the one in which she could see a live feed of the morgue.

"Yes." The security guard nodded, shrugging, "Why?"

"Well I was wondering…" Molly continued and the guard continued to look at her skeptically, "…if I could, maybe, um, well, see some of the footage…from a few days ago…you record, right?"

"We do." The guard affirmed, "But we're not allowed to just release that footage to anyone."

"I'm not just anyone!" Molly protested, "…I work here!"

"I'm aware of that, ma'am." The guard said, "But you'd need to be a police officer. And you'd need to have a warrant."

Years before, Molly never would have even contemplated asking someone (especially someone she barely knew) to break the law for her.

She wasn't sure if it was her desire to do the right thing, her fear of being caught and punished for wrong-doing (and the shame…), or just her own lack of bravery to ever rebel or take a risk.

But when Sherlock started asking her to illegally donate body-parts and even bodies to him for his experiments and she found herself, despite those three things, unable to refuse, Molly realized it (breaking rules) was easier than she thought, and got easier still with each time.

And if she could do it for Sherlock, certainly she could (_should_) do it for herself…

"I know a police officer…" Molly stated, "I could get him…"

(It was a bluff. The last thing she wanted to do was get Lestrade involved in this.)

"Then get him." The guard replied, "And get a warrant. What do you want to see the tapes for, anyway?"

"I just…" Molly trailed off.

What was she gonna do?

Explain that she wanted to collect video evidence that _Jim Moriarty _had visited _her _in the morgue _multiple times_, during which he had alluded to various crimes that he had previously committed?

Well, actually that _would _be a good explanation…

…If it weren't for the fact that then Molly would then need a good explanation as to why she didn't report these incidents to the police in the first place.

The security guard looked Molly up and down, suspiciously, waiting for her answer.

"I wanted proof I wasn't imagining things." She declared, deciding to just go with it, "I want proof I'm not crazy."

"This is about that body in the drawer you thought went missing, isn't it?" the guard inquired.

"Yes." Molly nodded quickly, "Yes it. You didn't believe me. But I know I didn't put that body back. Play the footage and we can see what really happened."

The guard thought about it for a long moment while Molly waited in nervous anticipation, eyes darting to the screens to see the current goings-on of the hospital.

"…fine." The security guard finally acquiesced.

He turned to his computer, which was connected somehow (wirelessly? That's surprisingly advanced for such an old hospital…) to the screens.

He clicked away at the keyboard and asked, "What day was that again?"

"November, sometime…" Molly answered, "I don't remember the exact date. Around the twentieth or so, maybe…"

_November twenty-third. _

Molly knew exactly what day it was that Jim Moriarty had, for the first time, come as _himself_ to the morgue.

And it had been for _her_, too, not for Sherlock.

A fact which surprised and unsettled Molly when she considered this and so _no_…

…Jim had done it for _himself._

Cruel, selfish…_that's better._

(Not sweetly sick or strangely sweet. No definitely not.)

Either way, it was_ burned_ into her memory.

(Along with every other encounter she had had with the consulting criminal.)

"The twenty-third, ma'am." The security guard decided, "It was the November twenty-third, two thousand eleven. I remember. I'll pull up the footage…"

He continued to click away at his keyboard as grayscale images changed on the screens.

Molly stepped closer, to stand behind the guard and get a better view.

"Here it is…" the guard said, "Lemme just fast forward it…"

The video of November 23, 2011 sped double-time before Molly's eyes as she watched the screen that displayed the morgue.

Molly watched herself walk into the morgue, begin work, take a break, and then return to work…

….but when it came time for Jim Moriarty to sneak in, move the body on the table into a pose, and then sneak out….

…the tape was blank.

Molly and the security guard stared at a black screen.

"What?" Molly exclaimed, "Why's it gone black? Where is it…?"

"I don't know, ma'am." the guard shrugged, "Damn thing must be broken…"

Their reflections in the dark screen looked equally shocked.

The guard attempted to fix the damn thing by pushing different keys but no matter what he tried the events of November twenty-third would not reply on the screen.

All the other days (and even areas of the hospital, and times in the morgue) that had nothing to do with Jim Moriarty were successfully on record, just as they should have been.

"Check Christmas Eve." Molly requested abruptly, "Midnight."

"December twenty-fifth, twelve A.M." The security guard agreed, as he typed.

Once again, the fast-forwarding images of people milling around the morgue (Sherlock among them) faded to black just when Jim was set to appear.

"What is going on here…" Molly muttered to herself.

"Malfunction, I guess…" the security guard shrugged again, glancing at the black screen, then at Molly and then back at the screen, "What were you expecting to see…on the twenty-fifth, I mean?"

"…nothing." Molly sighed, and then added, "Sorry to waste your time. Thank you, have a nice day."

Taking one last look at the darkened screen, Molly turned and left the security office.

* * *

><p><em>Duh…of course Moriarty would delete any evidence of his existence…!<em>

Molly cursed herself for being so s_tupid. _

She couldn't believe she actually thought she would get video footage of Jim Moriarty from hospital security cameras.

_Of course,_ he was more careful than that.

_Of course,_ he was _smarter_ than that.

Smarter than _her_ and she was so _stupid._

Despite being frustrated and embarrassed, Molly made sure none of that aggression transferred from within her mind to the amount of force she used as she examined the corpse of a teenaged boy.

It took delicate precision to complete a post-mortem exam.

(And always being the cautious, _feeble_ one, Molly was_ perfect_ for the job.)

According to the file (and Lestrade), this seventeen year old, Caucasian male was found dead in a guest room of the hotel where he worked ever since dropping out of school in order to help pay his family's expenses since his father had abandoned them.

With the stress of debt and family, Molly understood why an overwhelmed adolescent would turn to drugs.

(She, herself, had never tried any kind of illegal drug (or even smoked a cigarette). Mostly it was because she didn't have the kind of friends who did in school (or that many friends at all) but also because she always been afraid that it would go horribly wrong (like in the case of this victim).)

It was just so_ sad_ and so now the lab was running the test to see which drug and how much had killed this kid and it would be ready within the hour.

Now all Molly had to do was stitch-up the corpse in time for the boy's mother to come in and officially identify the body.

(So far she had just been notified by police via phone when they had gotten her number off of contact information from the hotel.)

Donovan was going to take care of that (since Molly didn't _do_ people very well and would be little help to a grieving mother) and would be here with the mother in about twenty minutes.

(The best Molly could do for the mother was find out what killed her son…and omit the details of anal tearing and penetration from her report.)

Thoughts of the police brought Molly back to the security footage.

Just what if she had gotten a hold of Moriarty on video?

What then?

It's not like she could just bring that to the police and he would be instantly arrested.

The authorities were already looking for him; they already had him on far worse crimes that moving a body in the morgue from a table to a drawer.

Molly knew this.

So why did she want the video evidence so badly….?

For _herself?_

To prove to_ herself_ that this all had actually happened, that Jim had actually paid attention, deliberate, specific attention, to _her_?

_To prove she wasn't crazy…?_

No.

No.

_No. _

_That_ would be crazy.

* * *

><p>"Uh…who are you?"<p>

"…Molly Hooper. I work at the morgue…at St. Bart's. Detective Donovan asked me to bring this here to you…You're Anderson, right…?

"…Yeah…"

"Well, um, here, then. It's the drug test from the boy found at the hotel."

"Thanks. You know, I do have a first name. And a rank. Even though nobody seems to know it. It's—"

"I'm so sorry, but I have to go now. Do you know where Detective Inspector Lestrade is?"

"He's in the interrogation room again. He's still talking to that bloke who says Moriarty beat him up and mugged him Christmas morning."

"What?"

"Oh, right…you don't work here. You wouldn't have heard. There's this drug dealer who turned himself in yesterday begging for police protection from that Moriarty criminal who went after Holmes stole his drug stash from him. It's a right funny story actually-"

"I have to go. I'm sorry. I have to go."

"…_damn it._ That was that girl who's got the crush on Holmes...I wasn't supposed to tell her that…"

* * *

><p>Why would Moriarty have robbed a drug dealer?<p>

_There was no way…_

This had to be some kind of trick…

Molly's head ached from thinking so hard, trying to figure out why Moriarty (allegedly) stole drugs from a drug dealer.

Sherlock would have known immediately, of course, but according to Lestrade and John Watson's blog, Sherlock wasn't _available_ at the moment.

_Depressed over a dead woman who wasn't even really dead…_

No.

No time for jealousy.

Think _positive!_

_Think like Sherlock Holmes_ and solve this thing…

…then maybe Sherlock would finally _appreciate _Molly Hooper.

But no.

Molly couldn't think of anything.

She was too _stupid._

All she could do was her job.

Sherlock, or Lestrade or even Moriarty would do the rest.

Molly could pick up the pieces of the puzzle off of the floor, polish them and then put them into neat and tidy little rows.

She could never put the whole picture together.

But that wasn't her job anyway, now was it?

So why was Molly _here_, in the lobby of the kind of luxury hotel she could never afford, telling the smiling lady at the front desk that she was from Scotland Yard and here to continue their investigation into the death of a child?

"I'll need to see the security footage from yesterday." She told the receptionist.

Yes, of course, Detective Donovan. Right this way, Detective Donovan, follow me. The security office is just down this hall, first door on your left. Have a nice day, Detective Donovan.

As a detective (Detective Donovan) with all authority of Scotland Yard and the British Government Molly felt no obligation to awkwardly smile in return to the receptionist.

This was a serious matter, after all.

(And besides, Donovan didn't really smile all that often. At least not when Molly was around to see.)

Once the lady from the front desk had gone back to the front desk and could no longer see Molly, Molly knocked on the door to the hotel security office.

"Come in." someone called and so she did.

"…hello…" Molly giggled, leaning back against the door as she closed it behind her.

The uniformed guard, younger and more muscular than the one at the hospital (probably because this expensive hotel had the budget to afford a better one) looked Molly up and down, confused but less suspicious than the other guard had been.

Molly wasn't wearing her white labcoat.

She had pulled out a red top and a black skirt she hadn't worn in years and even put on her lipstick.

She wasn't _stupid._

She could fool a receptionist into thinking she was a police officer, but a security guard would (most hopefully) recognize a fake.

And so Molly wasn't going to even bother to try with that ruse.

Instead she had another one.

"Can I help you, miss…?" the guard asked, standing up to greet her like a gentleman.

"_I got lost_." Molly grinned and then giggled again.

She was trying to seem drunk (which she was, actually, since she had had a few drinks at the hotel bar (way overpriced) to get up the courage for this (and the receptionist hadn't noticed her 'drinking on the job').

"Oh." The security guard replied and saw that Molly was still smiling at him.

They just kind of looked at each other for a few moments before Molly suddenly pointed.

"Oh…wow!" she exclaimed, "What's _that _model?"

She was pointing at the screens on the wall, displaying different locations of the hotel in black and white.

It was surprising almost exactly like the security system at the hotel, same colors (silverish-light gray), same shape (square, of course)…

…and even the same logo.

"It's a PICA 7s." the guard stated proudly, but Molly could tell he was surprised that she had even thought to ask about a security system's 'model'.

"I know a bit about computers…and stuff." Molly explained, still giggling, "I've got an ex-boyfriend who's an IT guy."

"Oh, cool." The security guard accepted, nodding and finally returning Molly's smile, "Did he work with security?"

"…um…no…" Molly answered, scratching her ankle with her other foot, and watching herself do it, "…but he knew about them, though. Told me a lot. Talked about computers all the time. I think he mentioned _'pie-kah seven-s'_ before, actually…"

"He did?" the guard inquired excitedly, "It's the newest model, came out last year, and the best of all the security systems. Where does your ex work? Do they have it there?"

"….Let's not talk about my ex-boyfriend…" Molly suggested, leaving the safety of leaning against the door and approaching the security guard.

"…What would you like to talk about then…miss?" the security guard asked.

He sat back down in his swivel chair (leather unlike the one that the security guard in the hospital had) hopefully, as if he was expecting Molly sit down on his lap.

"Well…" Molly began, close to him but definitely not as close as he would have liked, "…we could talk about your PICA, then. You seem to like that. How about you show me some footage…"

* * *

><p>"I don't understand…I don't understand why it's all gone black…"<p>

The security guard was sitting in his chair, typing at his keyboard, staring at the darkened screen and shaking his head.

"There's no reason….there's no way it could have broken already…it's brand new…we've got a warranty…"

"Are you sure it's not just a computer error, or something?" Molly asked, standing behind him.

"I'm sure." The guard declared, "PICA's good. It's always reliable. Even the government uses it. All the cameras you see on the streets and at all the government buildings, it's all PICA. It's the best damn security tech you can get. So there's no reason why it would randomly be erased…"

The guard, defeatedly, exited the archive function of the system and spun around in his chair to face Molly.

Molly saw the video feed return to current date and time from the black screen that should have shown whatever happened to the teenage employee that ended with him overdosed on drugs and naked on a bed in a hotel room.

_Room 221._The same number as Sherlock's address (minus the b) which Molly was embarrassed to have memorized but found oddly _coincidental_ under this circumstance.

Just like how it was_ coincidental_ that the hospital and the hotel both had the same security system and both had footage mysteriously replaced by a black screen.

_What else_, Molly wondered, _did these two scenarios have in common? _

Before she could further contemplate that a familiar figure caught her eye from one of the security screens.

Lestrade.

_He was here! In the lobby! _

Molly had to get out of the hotel _quick_, before Lestrade spotter her and the _jig _was up.

She couldn't even imagine how she would explain what she was doing here, impersonating a police officer and flirting with a security guard in order to see video footage of yesterday.

"I'm so sorry…" Molly apologized, trying not to sound flustered, "But I've just realized…I have to go…"

"Oh…" the security guard responded, looking almost sad, "…where? Why?"

Then Molly realized that if she wanted to get out of the security office quickly she should probably actually look flustered as if she had just remembered she was late to a meeting or something and had to hurry.

"I've got a meeting." Molly told him, worriedly, "I'm already late!"

"Oh, well you should probably go then." The guard acquiesced, "Is it in the hotel…?"

"…um…no…" Molly answered and then wished she had said 'yes'.

"Then what were you even doing here in the first place?" the security guard asked, narrowing his eyes and raising an eyebrow in confusion.

Now he was suspicious.

"I told you," Molly saved herself, "_I got lost_…"

She smiled and he couldn't help but smile as well.

"Well I hope you find your way." He joked, and then added "I'll be here if you ever need my help…"

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind." Molly said, smiling as she turned and hurried out of the room.

The security guard stood again to watch her go.

Molly even thought he called out what his name was 'by the way' and that it was 'nice to meet' her.

And years before… before Sherlock, before Moriarty… Molly never, _ever _would have run (and yes, she had now broken into a run in order to avoid Lestrade) away from that.

* * *

><p>It was a tad bit out of her way, but not so far as to be <em>unjustifiable<em>, passing by Sherlock's flat on her way home.

Besides, she had been invited there before and it's not like checking up on a friend one knows to be 'not feeling well' could really be _unjustifiable_ at all.

As Molly approached the building, she saw a fancy-looking black towncar with its engine still running waiting on the edge of the road, just by the sidewalk in front of 221.

The windows were tinted and so Molly couldn't see who was inside but she thought it was odd that someone rich enough to ride in a vehicle like that would be visiting Baker Street.

It wasn't for Sherlock (or John Watson either, most likely), Molly reasoned because she knew Sherlock took taxis.

Maybe it was a prospective client…

She knew Sherlock could have been able to tell exactly who it was and what they wanted from the same information Molly was staring at but Molly was not Sherlock.

No, she was just checking on him.

Just a friend and just checking on him.

Molly walked towards the door to 221, opening the door (instead of knocking because she doubted Sherlock would answer to a knock anyway) and stepping inside.

She could see the stairs in front of her…

…_and she could hear the voices. _

"It plainly states in the text message, _Sherlock_, that you wanted to _'get high'_. There is no other reasonable definition, by _any_ dictionary of the English language, to what that person, _whoever it is,_ meant by _'get high'_. So don't try to tell me—"

Molly didn't recognize the voice.

It sounded reserved, calm and yet _very angry_ at Sherlock.

"It was a wrong number, then." Sherlock's voice interrupted.

"No. You and I _both_ know—"

"Shut up, Mycroft. You _obviously_ don't know anything-"

"I think I do, Sherlock, I think I _do_. I know that you happen to be suffering from an sickness of ill-advised _sentiment_ at the moment and I know _all too well_ that when you experience these sorts of…_episodes,_ you tend to self medicat—

Suddenly, violin music.

Well not exactly _music_…

…more like very loud, very intentional screeching rivaled only by the sound of fingernails on chalkboard.

"Sherlock would you stop that!" the first voice attempted to shout over the noise.

"I'm sorry!" Sherlock's voice called, violin still scratching, "Can't hear you!"

"Hey, Sherlock, what's going on in here? What_ is_ that awful noise-Mycroft, what are you doing here?"

"Oh, hello, Doctor Watson."

The 'music' stopped.

"Mycroft, give that back! You'll break it!"

"Maybe that would be for the best, given the sound of your playing…"

"What are you two fighting about _this time_?" John's voice asked, sighing.

"Mycroft stole my violin and invaded my privacy."

"…What…?"

"Sherlock attempted to purchase illegal narcotics."

"_What?" _

"I did _not_!"

"You did too, Sherlock. I have a copy of the text message right here—"

"You have no right to hack my phone and violate my right to priv-"

"Government, remember?"

"Sherlock is that true? Did you try to get drugs?"

"Oh, you too now, John? Why can't you all just stay out of my affairs and leave me alone-"

"Because I live with you."

"Because I'm your brother."

"_Excuse me, ma'am." _

Molly felt a hand on her shoulder as she was spun around to face a young woman with brown hair in business attire, including a sleek smart phone.

"…uh, yes?" Molly asked.

"You need to leave." The woman instructed.

"W-what?" Molly stammered.

"Leave 221 Baker Street." The woman specified, "Immediately. Now. Go!"

And then Molly felt herself being ushered out of the building and back onto the street.

She could hear no more of the interesting conversation occurring between Sherlock, John and…Mycroft, was it? Sherlock's brother.

The guy from the morgue the other night?

Yes, that was probably him.

Molly continued to be pushed until she was far enough away from the premises she had been kicked out of by this mysterious woman that the mysterious woman decided to let her go.

"Why?" Molly turned around and asked her.

"Don't ask." The woman dismissed, already looking back down at her phone rather than at Molly "And don't come back here uninvited."

Molly watched her strut away in her heels, looking so glamorous and high class and stuck up.

(Just like the girls who used to tease her in primary school.)

Who was she?

Just like so many things, Molly decided, she would never know…

* * *

><p>Walking home from Sherlock's, Molly found herself taking the same long, dangerous (as Jim had described it) way she had Christmas Eve.<p>

Passing by certain alleyways and side-streets she remembered them being listed as the sites the three bodies had been discovered, throats slit.

Molly had barely been able to hold her composure as she conducted their post-mortems.

She knew the men's deaths were _her fault…_

Even if they had (allegedly) attempted to mug her, that didn't mean they had deserved to die.

It was just so _sad_…

The worst part was, since Moriarty was their killer, they would probably never have any justice.

There was no physical evidence that he did it and despite the security cameras Molly could see (all of which had full view of the murder scenes) all the footage of that night had been conveniently and coincidentally deleted (according to Lestrade's report).

Molly knew that justice wasn't _her job_ and yet…

She wanted to make things right.

And plus, the puzzle pieces were all here, right in front of her.

Even better, Molly knew exactly what the picture was supposed to look like.

How hard should it be to put it together…?

_Very hard_, when the picture was of _Jim Moriarty. _

_Very, very hard…_

But Molly wasn't _stupid._

She was going to do it.

* * *

><p><strong> Sorry if Molly was OOC but I felt it was time for some character development. <strong>

**She can't be a timid little mouse forever, now can she...?**

**(Besides, she was drunk! XD) **

**PICA is a fictional company, by the way. **

**The 7s bit was a play on Iphone 4s and Windows 7 too lol.**

**And I know there was a lot of blah, blah, blah about security cameras and footage... **

**This will all be relevent. **

**Please review!**


	12. Windowshopping

**Hi, again! **

**There's Molly and Jim interaction in this one, so yay!  
><strong>

**...there's also a lot (A LOT) of text messaging lol. **

**Here's the next chapter: **

* * *

><p><strong>12-31-2011<strong>

* * *

><p><em>I'm still alive. Let's have dinner. <em>

**####**

_Happy New Year._

* * *

><p><em> .<em>

_._

_._

* * *

><p><em>Our mutual 'friend' isn't so friendly anymore. <em>

_I decided it was time for Kate and I took our leave from his company._

**####**

_Last time we met you weren't so friendly yourself. _

**####**

_Neither were you. _

**####**

_True. _

_Forgive me? _

**####**

_I have to. We still have a deal. _

**####**

_Technically no. _

_Seeing as how my only involvement with you was due to the interference of our mutual friend who isn't so friendly. _

_He was trying to keep me away from a certain someone…_

**####**

_Sherlock? _

**####**

_No shit. _

**####**

_Yeah… he tried to do that to me too. _

_His plan was to have Sebastian Moran break into Sherlock's apartment and steal back my phone instead of allowing me to go get it myself. _

**####**

_Oh._

_How boring. _

_He really does have Mr. Sniper do everything for him now…_

**####**

_That's how I knew I couldn't trust him anymore._

_Given his expertise, he could have easily hacked my phone password and solved all the codes on it. _

_And so once he had my phone and all its information, what would need me for? _

**####**

_That's 'friends' for you. _

_They only want you for your stuff. _

**####**

_Friendship is only another form of business. _

_Sometimes we trade in goods and services, sometimes we trade in loyalty. _

**####**

_Yeah, he told that to me too. _

_Not that I really listened. _

_Anyway, your point is…? _

**####**

_We had a deal. _

_And we still do, too, I hope. _

**####**

_Yes…and? _

**####**

_And now that I've escaped you-know-who's protection, the terrorists are after me again. _

**####**

_Impossible! You're dead! _

**####**

_Apparently the British government doesn't share its information with the terrorists. _

**####**

…_you'd be surprised…_

**####**

_I'm sure. _

_But the terrorists are after me and I know you share information with them. _

**####**

_Who told you that? _

_How dare they accuse me of such treason! _

**####**

_You know who told me. _

**####**

_As in 'you-know-who' told you? _

**####**

_Yes. _

**####**

_Tattletale. _

**####**

_Who? _

_Me or him? _

**####**

_Him. _

_Well both of you, really, since you just snitched on him to me._

_But mostly him. _

**####**

_I need your help. _

_I know what code the government and the Americans were so intent on getting back from me and I know the man I acquired that code from worked high up in the anti-terror division. _

_And so I made my deductions…_

**####**

_Oooh. Deductions! _

_That word just makes me go all tingly inside! _

**####**

_My life is at stake. _

_Please try to take this seriously. _

**####**

_Did you know, Irene, that life is a Game? _

**####**

…_.Really?_

_I'm rolling my eyes, by the way, I know that sarcasm doesn't translate well on to text. _

**####**

_There's the kind of person who plays to win and the kind of person who plays for the fun of it._

_Which one are you? _

**####**

_I'm not playing anymore. _

**####**

_Then you're dead. _

**####**

_Actually that's what I'm trying to prevent and so that's why I'm so adamant that you take our deal seriously. _

**####**

_Me, I'm the second kind of person. _

_I play for fun. _

**####**

_One more text like that and I'll go right back our mutual friend._

_He doesn't seem so bad anymore compared to this…_

**####**

_What I mean is that I don't need this 'job', I already work far too much. _

_And I don't want your money, I've got more than enough of that, too…_

_So what I want to do is have fun. _

_I'm going to help you for the fun of it. _

**####**

_Honestly I don't care why you do as long as you do help me. _

**####**

_Looks like we understand each other then. _

_Now you don't have to worry about our mutual friends in Al Qaeda, I'll make sure they stay friendly. _

_Just get me that code that everyone's got their panties in a bunch about and be quick about it this time. _

**####**

_You do know that involves involving Sherlock in this, right? _

**####**

_Yes. _

_I'm the one who told you to get him involved, remember? _

_He's the only other person who could possibly decode that information on your phone… _

_Save for a certain somebody we both know who probably does that sort of thing for fun as well as for work, of course. _

**####**

_And you're alright with that? _

**####**

_Oh much more than alright. _

**####**

_Good. _

_Since I already told Sherlock I was still alive. _

_And John Watson, too. _

**####**

_Oooh, splendid! _

_Sherlock must have been beyond overjoyed to see his beloved alive and well after a week of moping around like a suburban teenager…_

**####**

_He didn't 'see' me. _

**####**

_...I see. _

_So no Big Kiss, then? _

**####**

_Not yet. _

**####**

_Well if you're going to fuck him so that he'll decode the thing for then you'd best get on with it already. _

**####**

_I'm not going to exchange sexual favors for information. _

**####**

_Why not? _

_It's just another form of business, isn't it? _

_And not too far a deviation from what you already do…_

_Could turn into a whole 'friends with benefits' thing, even. _

_I won't judge._

**####**

_No._

_Just no. _

_I wouldn't sleep with somebody like him, anyway._

_He's really not my type at all. _

**####**

_The lady doth protest too much._

**####**

_The Woman, dear, not 'the lady'. _

_And you're being a bit friendlier about this whole Sherlock thing than you were on Christmas…_

**####**

_You noticed? _

_Maybe I'm protesting too much, too, then. _

**####**

_I'll have the code for you within 24 hours. _

_After that, he's all yours. _

**####**

_Oh, how generous of you to just give him up like that._

_Wouldn't be so easy for me… _

**####**

_It's a just a game, anyway, after all. _

_Games have to end sometime…_

**####**

_Oh, mummy, do we have to leave the park now! _

_Five more minutes, please!_

**####**

_It gets old after awhile, playing the same game. _

_I'm sure you know that. _

**####**

_All too well. _

_I've got a short attention span. _

**####**

_Brilliant deduction. _

_I'll text you when Sherlock's solved the code. _

**####**

_Can't wait. _

_And one more thing, Miss Adler…_

**####**

_Yes? _

**####**

_You asked if I was alright with you getting Sherlock involved, which I more than completely am. _

_But as for our mutual 'friend'…_

_I know he won't be. _

**####**

_So? _

_Given his intentions for my phone and myself, I've decided to end our friendship. _

**####**

_That's ambitious. _

_I've been trying at it almost for my whole life and still haven't figured out how and I'm a genius. _

**####**

_Once I've got that code solved and the British government wrapped around my little finger by a silver chain I won't have to worry about anyone anymore. _

_Not the terrorists and not my other unfriendly friend. _

**####**

_Just don't say his name and I'm sure you'll be fine. _

**####**

_Your name, too?_

**####**

_Once. _

_You can say it once._

_Once this is all over, you can use it to gloat._

_But only once._

* * *

><p><em> .<em>

_._

_. _

* * *

><p><em>Irene Adler has fled my safehouse, foolish of her, don't you agree? <em>

**####**

_Bordering on the idiotic. _

_Why? _

**####**

_Well you wouldn't have had anything to do with that, now would you?_

**####**

_How could you think that! _

**####**

_You've been known to do foolish things, things that border on the idiotic. _

**####**

_I do FUN things. _

_But you wouldn't understand that…_

**####**

_What I don't understand is your need to complicate things. _

_Anything on Adler's phone I could have decoded and you know that. _

_So why just bring her and the phone to me in the first place?_

**####**

_Why send her to me in the first place if you could do that yourself? _

_Oh yeah. _

_You wanted to distract me…_

**####**

_I went far out of my way, put in copious amounts of time and effort, to make you the perfect game where you could have your 'fun' with Sherlock Holmes and still not get us both damned by his damn deductions…_

…_but it wasn't enough, it's never enough with you. _

_You had to go and see him in person._

_Tell him your name…_

_So much for anonymous text messages, third-party callers, and all my hard work. _

**####**

_Cycling isn't any fun if you've got to wear helmets and knee pads. _

_I can't have any fun in a room lined with protective padding._

_It would drive me crazy…_

**####**

_You ARE crazy. _

_And you belong in a mental institution, so help me god I am a hair away from putting you in one. _

**####**

_I'm just your bird in a cage. _

_Make me a free range chicken?_

_I promise not to fly away…_

**####**

_I'd clip your wings before I'd let you. _

**####**

_Spoilsport. _

**####**

_Games, most of all, need rules. _

**####**

_How would you know? _

_You've never played any. _

**####**

_No, I've been too busy referee-ing yours. _

**####**

_Well don't worry. _

_I've got things with dear Irene under control. _

**####**

_Well don't foul it up. _

**####**

_Oh, I love it when you get a sense of humor. _

_In those rare times I might even love you, too. _

**####**

_I'm being serious. _

**####**

_Oh, I know, I know._

_Irene asked me to be serious too. _

_Sorry she flew the coop on you, by the way. _

_But I promise not to 'fowl' things up. _

_:)_

**####**

_…hilarious._

_Now that you've got that one out, get to it._

**####**

_Will cocka-doodle DO! _

**####**

…

* * *

><p>.<p>

.

.

* * *

><p><em>If you get a break from your shift, you should go take a peak into the intensive care unit. <em>

_It would do you well to get out of that morgue once and while, Molly, see some life…(although most of it is just breathing machines, bleeding and feeding tubes, probably end up on your table sooner or later anyway.)_

_But if you go now, you'll get to see Sherlock's handy-work. _

_Got a fascinating cruel streak, he does._

_Threw a man out of a window._

_Twelve times. _

_(He lost count but I didn't.)_

_The man was a CIA agent too. _

_He came all the way from across the pond to find Miss Irene Adler. _

_Which reminds me, Molly…_

_You've got quite a fascinating cruel streak too, don't you? _

_You knew Sherlock was practically sobbing into his pillow over her 'death…_

_And yet you didn't tell him she was still alive and just let him suffer. _

_Pretty cruel, indeed, if I do say so myself and I am kind of an expert. _

_You love this man, Sherlock Holmes, but you don't want your 'beloved' to be happy…_

…_you just want him all to yourself, it seems. _

_Right, Molly? _

_Molly? _

_He knows Irene's alive now, by the way, Sherlock does. _

_That's why he's leaving the flat again. _

_So much for having him all to yourself…not that you had a chance in the first place, then, Molly…_

_Molly?_

_Answer me, Molly…_

_I don't like to be ignored…_

_Molly Hooper I insist you answer me this instant!_

_I know where you are…do I have to go all the way down to the morgue? _

_I will, too, you know. _

_I don't make empty threats and I keep my promises. _

_Remember that, Molly. _

_Molly? _

_Molly!_

* * *

><p><strong>1-04-2012<strong>

* * *

><p>"<em>Leave Baker Street. And don't come back uninvited." <em>

Molly was on Baker Street.

Uninvited.

But t was a public street, after all.

So what if Molly 'just happened' to take a walk, that 'just happened' to take her down this particular street?

Who was some random woman with a smartphone to tell her what to do?

And speaking of _phones…_

"_Is that a phone?"_

"_It's a camera phone." _

"_And you're x-raying it?" _

"_Yes I am."_

"_Whose phone is it?" _

"_A woman's." _

"_Your girlfriend?" _

"_You think she's my girlfriend because I'm x-raying her possessions?" _

"_Well, we all do silly things." _

Yes.

_We all do indeed, _Molly repeated, this time to herself within her thoughts.

"_They do. Don't they…very silly." _

Sherlock had agreed, too.

But, as usual, he hadn't included himself among the people doing 'silly things'.

However he did include 'she'…

_…whoever 'she' was._

(Irene Adler, probably…)

"_She sent this to my address..." _

And so Molly sent herself to Sherlock's address.

Again.

But she was just passing by, this time.

Not to hang out by the door and try to catch anymore bits of juicy conversation as_ tempting_ as that would be…

(And Molly would keep passing, too, if she saw that black town car out front…)

Luckily the curb in front of Sherlock's apartment was uninhabited.

Discreetly as she could (and she could be very discreet, being the mouse that she was) Molly crept up to 221 Baker Street.

Knowing that she probably looked absolutely ridiculous, standing on her tip-toes, Molly attempted to peer into 221b through its window, half obscured by curtain.

She was wearing a hooded coat, _justifiable _in the cold, snowy weather and a scarf she had pulled up almost to her eyes.

For once, Molly was glad that she usually went unnoticed.

_Hopefully_ no one would recognize her.

But Molly's hopes always did seem to get dashed, didn't they?

"Hey, Molly."

At this point Molly knew who this smug, mocking voice belonged to without having to turn and see who was speaking to her.

And so she didn't.

"Hello, Jim." Molly greeted, evenly, without jumping in surprise and whirling around to stare at him in fear and fumble for words.

She could see him in the window's reflection, though.

So she'd know if he was about to you know, stab her, or something like that, from behind.

"Fancy seeing _you_ here." Jim replied.

And his reflection winked at her.

"I just happened to be in the neighborhood…" Molly laughed nervously.

"Oh, me _too!_" Jim grinned, "I think we must have a _mutual friend_…"

Molly turned around, finally.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, as usual.

What she was really asking, though, was whether Jim had come to Baker Street because of_ her_ or because of _Sherlock._

"Same thing you are." Jim shrugged.

Which answered her question.

He also seemed to be '_incognito_' as well, wearing street clothes rather than the suits (or naked) she had seen him in the last two times he had been _himself._

So was this what Jim Moriarty did in his spare time…or was this another _game_ he was playing?

Either way, spying on Sherlock Holmes was a popular activity that early morning.

(And _why_ had Molly come this early in the morning? Oh, she 'just happened' to walk by on her way to work. Would she 'just happen' to see that Sherlock's girlfriend (probably Irene Adler) had spent the night?)

Suddenly, Molly panicked (and more than her usual _oh-no-Jim-Moriarty-is-here_ panic).

_One _person staring in a window was conspicuous enough…

…_but two?_

"He'll see us!" Molly squeaked.

"You worry too much." Jim chuckled, "…but I do know a better view…"

"…Where…?" Molly inquired cautiously, expecting some kind of trick.

"Follow me."

Molly was skeptical as Jim led her down street after street until she realized that it didn't really matter where they were.

The 'better view' was in Jim's phone.

He pulled it out as they sat and showed her the inside of Sherlock and John's flat, via some kind of hidden camera he had installed while they were out.

(A PICA, perhaps? If it was a PICA Molly would _not _be surprised…)

"Snuck in when they weren't there." Jim explained, "Much more convenient than staring in the window, don't you agree?"

"Then why'd you even go there?" Molly asked.

"Oh, I dunno..." Jim said, leaning back comfortably, "…just happened to be in the neighborhood."

Molly pretended not to notice as Jim casually stretched his arm out against the backrest of the bench so that it was right behind her.

His other hand was still holding the phone, showing them both where Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, doing some sort of experiment that involved that involved chemicals and body parts he had taken from the morgue (taken from Molly) yesterday.

Steam sprayed out of a beaker and Sherlock quickly snatched the phone (the woman's phone that he was x-raying(his girlfriend (Irene Adler, probably))) that was lying on the table next to him to safety.

"Looks like Sherlock's mood has improved since he's started experimenting again." Jim noted, "I wonder why…he was so awfully _depressed_ before…which reminds me. Why didn't you tell him Irene Adler was still alive? Seems pretty _cruel_, letting him _suffer _like that, thinking she was dead."

"I know…" Molly admitted, looking down at her lap, her hands folded, "I felt so awful…hearing how he wouldn't even come out of his room…but, I mean, I-"

"Wanted him to think she was dead?" Jim suggested, "So that you'd have him all to yourself?"

"What?" Molly exclaimed, head lifting instantly, eyes wide in surprise and offense, "No! I would never-! I just…I didn't even know who Irene Alder was until _you_ told me…how could I explain that to him?…why would he even _believe_ me?"

"…oh." Jim responded.

From his face, Molly could see that he actually hadn't predicted her answer and seemed to be…_disappointed _by it.

"Wait, you thought that I—" Molly began.

"You didn't get my text, did you…?" Jim interrupted.

"You texted me?" Molly replied, taken a back, "No, I didn't get it."

Jim sighed.

And for a moment, Molly caught a hint of _relief_ in his eyes a mid the _dissapointment_ and the rest of the unreadable, false emotion.

"It's _brutal,_ you know…" he finally said.

"What is?" she asked.

"Window shopping." He answered, "Watching what you know you can't have from the _outside_…so close and yet you can't_ touch_…"

They stared into the phone at Sherlock stand up from the table, pick up the phone and carry it into the next room where he flopped down on the couch and started to toy with it.

"Then why do we do it?" Molly asked.

It was a genuine question.

She desperately wanted to know why she always inflected torture upon herself when it could have been avoided simply by looking away.

Maybe Jim would know…

He laughed out loud, throwing his head back, instead of answering.

Oh well.

Maybe Sherlock would know, she'd ask him some time.

"Just look at him…" Jim stated, eyes locked onto his phone again, "I want to know what he's thinking…it's so _unfair_, to be on the _outside _of his mind. He can look at anyone and know exactly what they're thinking. And yet, he's always a mystery…"

"I hate it." Molly commented.

"But you love it, too." Jim reminded, looking at her and smiling slightly at one corner of his mouth.

She nodded.

They watched Sherlock again, for a while, in silence.

He didn't move from the sofa.

"Well this is getting _boring_…" Jim decided, abruptly, shutting off the feed and putting the phone in his pocket.

(Jim always got bored, watching a game from the sidelines, being unable to play.)

_Molly hadn't been bored. _

Maybe it was because Sherlock was just that interesting when he was doing nothing…

…or maybe it was because she was _on edge _(nervous?..._exicited_?) anyway, from sitting next to Jim Moriarty, chatting like _friends _and then sitting in non-awkward silence like _good friends. _

"But it's not always this tedious, don't worry. It gets pretty _interesting_ sometimes. Like when Sherlock and John _have sex_…"

"_What!" _

"Calm down, I'm _joking._ But that would be _quite_ the sight to see…I don't know if I'd be able to just _sit back and watch_, if I saw _that, _I might have to_ join in_…"

"…is Sherlock...um, is he…_gay_?"

More laughter, head thrown back.

But Jim did answer her this time (although not her question).

"Someone once told me that 'nothing is ever so _absolute_'." Jim quoted, "She would know. She's a lesbian dominatrix… and yet, she fell in love with Sherlock Holmes. So I guess there are exceptions to everything…"

"And Sherlock," Molly wondered, "He's your exception, too?"

"No, Molly." Jim chucked, "_You are._"

* * *

><p><strong>01-06-2012<strong>

* * *

><p><em>747 TOMORROW 6:30PM HEATHROW<em>

* * *

><p><em>Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mr Holmes, dear me.<em>

* * *

><p><em> .<em>

_._

_. _

* * *

><p><em>They know. <em>

_Call it off. _

**####**

_Will do, sir. _

_May I ask how they found out? _

**####**

_No._

_But bring me Sherlock Holmes._

**####**

_Yes sir_

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_._

_. _

* * *

><p><em>Salam wa aleikum, my habib. <em>

_Boy, have I got some news for you…_

**####**

_Good afternoon, Mr. M._

_What news? _

**####**

_Well it's treason for me to tell you this but…_

_They know. _

**####**

_Know what? _

_And who is 'they'? _

**####**

_Oh, ALLAH, why must everyone be so STUPID? _

'_They' obviously refers to the British government, hence 'treason'…since Northern Ireland is still part of the commonwealth despite it's attempts to end the 'friendship'. _

_And what 'They', being the British government, in case you've already forgotten, 'know' is about the bomb on the plane tomorrow. _

**####**

_How did they find out?_

**####**

_Solved your code, they've got computers for that. _

_Lucky I've got one too. _

_His name is Sherlock Holmes. _

**####**

_I must inform my leader about this. _

**####**

_Yeah, you do that. _

_Also tell him to leave that poor Irene Adler alone. _

_I know she's an infidel and you all don't approve of more, well, liberated women shall we say…but give her a pass, okay?_

_Just this once, for me. _

**####**

_I will ask my leader but I am not sure if he will oblige. _

_Irene Adler greatly offended him. _

**####**

_Yeah and his first wife, too. _

_I've heard. _

_The cat's out of the burqa..._

_ ...in SO many ways..._

**####**

_You must not tell anyone about that. _

_But I hope you can understand why my leader will not be so forgiving towards Irene Adler. _

**####**

_Actually, he will. _

_All you have to do is tell him my name._

* * *

><p><strong>01-07-2012<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Help me. <em>

**####**

_Who is this? _

_I swear to god I'll KILL whoever gave you this number…_

**####**

_You'll kill your oldest and dearest friend? _

**####**

_Oh, Irene, hello. _

_Didn't know it was you._

_And I know it doesn't translate well over text message but when I say 'friend' I'm being sarcastic and what I really mean is 'the man holding the leash around my neck, slowly choking me'._

_Kind of like what you do for a living. _

_Of course, you're hardly going to need to do that much anymore since I'm sure Mycroft is a wealthy enough that you'll only need him as a client. _

**####**

_Well about that…_

* * *

><p><em>.<em>

_._

_. _

* * *

><p><em>You said you'd take care of this. <em>

_Now your Woman has failed. _

**####**

_Can't say I'm too surprised. _

_I mean, 'S H E R' as the password to unlock her phone? _

'_Sher' as in 'I AM SHER LOCKED'? _

_Even I'd guess that. _

_Too easy. _

**####**

_There was so much information on that phone. _

_So much we could have used…_

_All of it wasted! _

**####**

_Oh, well. _

_You win some, you lose some. _

_That's life. _

**####**

_Life isn't a game. _

**####**

_Yes it is. _

_And you strike me as the kind of person who plays to win. _

_Probably why you never have any fun. _

**####**

_In a matter of days Irene Adler will be dead. _

_Let this be a lesson to you._

_This is what happens when you get too caught up in the game. _

_When you have too much fun. _

**####**

_No such thing as too much fun, now is there? _

**####**

_I'm sure Miss Adler doesn't believe that anymore. _

**####**

_Oh you're not going after her, are you? _

**####**

_I'm not. _

_Al Qaeda is. _

**####**

_No they're not. _

_I made sure of it. _

_I told them my name…_

_For once I get to spoil YOUR fun! _

**####**

_That's always._

_But regardless, Al Qaeda now knows where Alder is and will dispose of her. _

**####**

_And why do you say that? _

**####**

_Because I told them MY name._

* * *

><p><strong>01-18-2012<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Hey, Sherlock. <em>

_It's me. _

_I know we haven't talked in awhile and that's breaking my heart._

_But powerful forces beyond my control are working to keep us apart and so that's just how it has to be. _

_For now, at least. _

_And for now, at least, I thought I'd let you have some fun. _

_(I do know how bored you get…)_

_And so, despite my desires to keep you all to myself…_

…_I've decided, in all my selflessness, to let you in on a little secret. _

_Irene Adler is in Karachi._

_She's just been captured by Al Qaeda, who will surely sever her pretty little head from her pretty little neck quicker than a guillotine. _

_Do with that information whatever you wish. _

_I just want my beloved to be happy…_

_Much love, _

_Jim Moriarty_

* * *

><p><strong>Hope that wasn't too confusing.<strong>

** And as you can see, it's becoming more and more apparant who's holding Jim's 'leash' lol.**

**So why still keep it a 'secret'? **

**For Drama's sake, I guess...**

**I want ya'll to find out when Molly does. lol...maybe. **

**(work in progress, need to plan ahead better, lacking direction, etc, etc lol) **

**Please review! **


	13. Diagnosis: Cognitive Dissonance

**Oooh, what's this?**

** An ENTIRE chapter of Jim and Molly? _Together?_ **

** Your welcome.**

**Hope you like it.**

* * *

><p><em>Valentine's Day.<em>

Humiliation, loneliness, another little reminder of the _truth_.

Molly had braced herself.

No, more than just_ 'braced'_ herself, she was used to this (it had been years since she had had a date for this cruel holiday).

Molly had taken the day off (to avoid awkward questions (or maybe to make it seem like she had something better to do) and barricaded herself inside her apartment, having stockpiled all her necessities the day before so that she would not have to go out and see all the smiling couples holding hands, lost in their own little world.

Molly had created _her own_ 'little world', this Valentine's Day.

It included her and her cat and some popcorn and romance movies (a lonely girl's version of _porn_) and reading Sherlock's website and John Watson's blog from the laptop next to her on the couch whenever the movies got boring.

She had woken up late, since she didn't have to go in to work, and had even gone back to sleep a couple of times (because_ sleep_ was the _happiest _thing in her life these days and in her _dreams _things were _different_).

Waking up at one in the afternoon, Molly's version of 2pm that day was actually 9pm that night.

That was when Toby had heard something and jumped up from her lap, ears twitching and then run towards the front door.

Soon enough, as her pet had predicted, there was a _knock._

A_ visitor_….?

…_on Valentine's Day? _

(The last time that had happened to Molly, it had been a last minute, _awkward_ thing with someone else just as desperate and lonely as she was (who then came to his senses and got back together with his ex-girlfriend (who he had been trying to make jealous) the next day).)

Molly wanted to get up and answer the door….

(Was some_ gentleman _here to sweep her off her feet?)

…but she didn't want to get up and answer the door and be _disappointed_.

(Was some random person here for some mundane reason?)

Molly doubted either of those possibilities.

She paused the movie with the remote and put the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.

She knew _exactly _who it would be.

(No, it wouldn't be Sherlock, come to his senses…sadly….)

Molly didn't want to get up and answer the door and be _disappointed._

(Why? Because it _was _Jim Moriarty or because it _wasn't?_)

But she did anyway.

And sure enough, Jim stood there, leaning with one arm against her door frame, holding a bouquet of flowers in the other.

"_Good evening_." He purred.

And Toby mewed, brushing past Molly's legs to rub up against Jim's.

She was in her pajamas, without make-up and hair a mess. She didn't think she'd see anyone today so she didn't bother to make an _effort._

He was in an expensive black suit, clean-shaven, hair slicked back. Handsome and put together, Molly thought, he probably didn't even_ need_ to make an _effort._

She bent to pull her cat away from his pants. (To protect the_ cat_ or to protect the _pants_?)

"They're too nice." She explained, "Wouldn't want you to ruin them with cat fur."

(She imagined Jim becoming infuriated at his clothes being _soiled_ with animal hair and then forcing her to pay the dry-cleaning bill which would probably cost three months' paychecks…or _more_.)

"I'd just buy another." He yawned, "Can I come in, or what?"

"Why do you even bother to ask?" Molly asked, holding Toby but looking at Jim.

It had been almost five weeks since she had last seen him that day they had 'just happened' to run into each other when they had 'just happened' to stand in front of Sherlock's house and stare into his window.

"It's polite." Jim answered, still outside.

"…if you came to kill me…" Molly mused, glancing down at her cat's fur ask she pet it (not absentmindedly at all…no, to_ distract_ herself from being afraid), "…would you bother to ask?"

"Don't give me any ideas." Jim warned and then smirked, "May I come inside?"

Molly nodded and then turned and walked back into her flat, making room for him to follow her.

"I don't can say 'no', anyway…" she said with her back to him, and then added, "…wouldn't be _polite._"

"_No._" she heard him say, "It certainly _wouldn't._"

And then she heard the door close.

Molly walked all the way into her living room, without looking at him, and plopped Toby back down on the couch.

When she finally turned to face him, Jim was in her kitchenette, running water from the sink into a vase he had found in one of the bottom cabinets and then placing the flowers inside.

There were so many.

Different colors and different kinds, as if he couldn't decide which ones to bring to her.

As if he couldn't make up his mind about her.

Molly didn't know much about flowers, she couldn't recognize the type on sight or what that type was supposed to mean…

(she wasn't used to getting them.)

…but she knew Jim probably _did._

She wanted to sneak over to her laptop without him noticing and look up each flower's meaning so that she could, for once, see into his _mind._

But Molly knew she couldn't get away with that.

Now the flowers were in the vase, the vase was on the kitchen counter and the paper they had come in floated gently to the floor.

Toby leaped up from the sofa to attack it.

"Do you like them?" Jim inquired, walking around the counter towards her.

"Yes." Molly answered, quietly, "…um, thank you."

"You can thank me by taking those pajamas off..." He smiled.

Molly froze and gaped, eyes and mouth wide in shock.

It was his favorite reaction of hers.

"…and putting on something a little more_ presentable."_ He completed, "After all, we _are_ going out tonight. I don't want to be _embarrassed_ to be seen with you."

"Okay." Molly agreed, knowing there was no point in saying 'no', "I'll be right back…"

She hurried into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

As she rifled through her small closet and dresser drawers, she heard the television turn back on and, once in awhile, Jim's laughter.

After about ten minutes she returned to the living room wearing the pink dress she had worn as a bridesmaid in her sister's wedding.

(It was the most expensive, 'classiest', garment she had.)

"No." Jim said, without even turning around from the television (or pausing it) to look at her.

"But—"

"_The white one." _

Molly nodded, even though he wasn't looking at her, and retreated back to her room.

How he knew what was in the back of her closet, she didn't even want to know.

The dress he was referring to she had never worn.

It had been the plain and practical (just above the knees, not low cut at all) frock that her mother had warn when her parents had gotten sensibly married inside an office of the local courthouse with only there two witnesses as guests and no fuss.

(Although when her father had married Molly's stepmother, three years after her mother had died, there had been a beautiful wedding in a garden.)

Molly, as her mother's (but not her father's) only daughter, she had inherited this dress and hadn't had the heart to donate it like the rest of her mother's clothing.

That didn't mean she had ever expected to wear it.

Somehow, Molly knew, Jim knew all this about Molly and the dress and that was why he had told her to wear it.

That was the _only_ explanation…

He was just trying to mess with her, as usual.

Molly put on the dress.

It fit her more tightly that it did the pretty lady in the old photographs.

(Molly's few memories of her mother were always a frightfully skinny figure that Molly had never been able to attain (even when she was trying her hardest to get boys to ask her out in secondary school.))

She emerged from her bedroom, again, and stood awkwardly behind the sofa, nervously adjusting her dress, waiting for Jim's approval.

He nodded in approval, and tossed the last kernel of her popcorn (which he had finished off in her absence) into his mouth and leaned his head backwards, hanging it over the back of the couch to stare up at her upside down, That'll do…although I _will _have to take you shopping sometime…"

"Okay, okay good." Molly replied, nodding, "I'll go do my make-up, then…"

She hurriedly retreated again, this time to the bathroom where she only applied light eye-shadow and lipstick.

She had to be so careful not to stain her mother's dress…

As she double-checked herself in the bathroom mirror, she saw Jim standing in the doorway behind her.

He came into the bathroom and sat down on the toilet seat.

Molly began to brush her hair so that her hands had something to do and she had something to concentrate on other than him watching her.

When it was finally untangled and even a bit shiny, due to some product her sister had recommended, Molly pushed it behind her back.

"Put it up." Jim instructed, " I like your neck."

Molly found her hair tie sitting next her make-up bag on the sink counter.

She braided her hair and then wrapped the long braid into a bun in the middle of the back of her head, the way her mother had always done for her every morning before school.

The results were surprisingly nice.

The cloudy winter had darkened her dirty-blonde hair back into its usual copper brown, although it was still light compared to Jim's.

"Good!" Jim grinned, standing up and right behind her, he was all but whispering into her ear, "I knew you had _cheekbones_ someone under there…"

'_Cheekbones'. _

Oh _god._

Don't even _mention_ 'cheekbones'…

And yet, Molly found a pink tinge appearing on her cheeks and she wished she had put on foundation.

"…do I look…'_presentable'_ enough?" Molly asked, suddenly turning all the way around to face him...but still keep her distance so that she would not _touch_ him (couldn't make up her mind).

"Oh yes, Molly, oh _yes_…" Jim answered, looking her up and down and smirking with his mouth slightly open.

She could see his tongue lick against his teeth and thought _shark._

"I'll get my coat." Molly said, smiling weakly and brushing past him.

* * *

><p>"Where are we going?" She asked him once they were on the sidewalk in front of her apartment building.<p>

It was dark and the air was frigid, there was still snow on the ground from the storm two weeks ago.

"I owe _you_ a date, Molly, ever since I so_ impolitely_ cancelled on you…wow, almost a year ago…" he answered, "…so_ you_ tell _me._"

"I haven't been on a _date_ since, well, almost a _year_ ago…" Molly replied, embarrassedly, "So…um...I don't know…"

"Well, where do normal people normally go on dates?" Jim suggested, "You should know, since you're, you know, _normal_…"

"I'm glad_ somebody_ considers me 'normal'." Molly couldn't help but laugh.

"_Normal_ people are _terribly boring_." Jim stated, "It_ wasn't_ a compliment."

"I know..." She said, putting her gloved hands into her coat pocket and starting down the sidewalk, then muttering "…I don't take compliments from _criminals, anyway_"

"And yet, you let _criminals_ take _you_ out." He returned, following after her and laughing audibly at her behind her back.

* * *

><p>Jim followed Molly all the way to a little bar with brick walls and dim lighting that she said she used to go to during medical school.<p>

"I never figured you the kind to go out drinking." Jim mused, "You seem more the type to stay home studying and then go to bed early."

It was almost ten now and they sat at the booth Molly said she used to sit at with her friends.

(Back before the job at the morgue took over her life. Back when she, you know, _had friends_.)

"It's not that kind of place." Molly stated, and it was obvious too, the bar wasn't at all crowded and occupied by people she recognized as most likely current medical students, "Besides, I only came here once in a while, anyway. Just when my friends convinced me."

"When you're friends convinced you?" Jim repeated, leaning forward across the table towards Molly, "I thought_ I_ was the only one who could get you to go out."

"Yeah, well it's rare, anyway…people asking me out." Molly admitted, "...or me going anywhere at all."

She felt comfortable complaining and pitying herself in front of Jim because she knew she didn't need to pretend, to put on the brave and happy face she did for everyone else. She knew he'd just see right through it, right through her...

...besides, she knew he already thought she was pitiful and desperate. She might as well play along.

"You must have been serious about him then." Jim 'deduced'.

(_Who?_ Jim _or_…)

"…how did you know? Never mind. Why bother asking, anyway. His name was Robert, by the way. Robby…but we weren't dating."

"That doesn't mean _you_ weren't _serious_."

"Well, I mean….he was nice, funny, _smart_…he wasn't interested, though…at least not _seriously._ He was a med student, like me…we'd come here with everyone…or sometimes just by ourselves, and this was back before that new place opened up down a few block away and everybody _normal_ forgot about this place, back when all sorts used to come here and we'd…well, _he'd… _he would _diagnose_ people."

"What do you mean _'diagnose'_ people? You mean like_ deduce_ them…?"

"Yes—no. Well, nothing like what Sherlock does, nothing even _close_ to that at all….but he could tell who was could hold their liquor and who was a lightweight. Who was addicted and who was just a casual drinker, stuff like that. He'd tell people what to eat before and after so they didn't get hangovers…"

"What else? I know there's more. Get to to the _good_ part."

"Well..he would sometimes diagnose people's medical problems too. Like old childhood injuries… or like diseases, heart conditions, blood pressure and the like, or skin rashes and even STIs. He'd tell the people what they had too, and even offer to write them prescriptions of paper he stole from the school."

"And what did the people have to say about that?"

Well some people thought it was nosy, _rude_—"

"But_ you_ didn't. You thought it was _cool."_

"I thought it was _funny._ Especially when he was _wrong._ Like when someone would have all the symptoms of having something and Rob was _so sure_ and then it turned out they didn't and he was _wrong._ Those were my favorite times."

Molly found herself laughing at the memories of a thoroughly frustrated and embarrassed almost-boyfriend making a fool out of himself by approaching somebody as if he knew something about them and finding out that he was completely and utterly _wrong _about them.

_ Humiliating_...Rob always tried to play it off as a joke with a laugh.

_Jim_ laughed too.

He wondered if this 'Robert' guy was the reason Molly fell so head-over-heels for Sherlock and if she ever wished Sherlock would be more like Robert and be _wrong_ once and a while and take her out to little bars and show off to her by diagnosing (deducing) fellow patrons.

He also thought it was funny (interesting) that what Molly liked to see was smart people be wrong (or rather, angels fall down from the heavens).

"Whatever happened to him?" Jim inquired.

"We lost touch." Molly answered.

So short that there was no way that it was the whole story.

"Why?"

"He went into a different field than I did."

Still too short.

"_Why?" _

"What do you mean 'why'?"

"Well you can't have _always_ wanted to work in a _morgue._"

Molly was quiet at that statement, which was true. She stared down at her glass, which was almost empty.

This whole situation was beginning to remind them both of their old 'coffee dates'.

(Awkward.)

(Boring.)

"There's a reason, Molly, why you can't seem to_ trust_ yourself around _living_ people. Why you confine yourself to a _morgue_ and operate only on the _dead_. That reason…are you going to _tell _me it?...or should I _diagnose?_"

Jim stared intently at her forehead, waiting for her to feel his eyes burning through her skull into her brain so that she would look up and meet them.

She did, she always did.

"Robert became a surgeon." Molly answered, "A _travelling _surgeon. _That's_ why we lost touch. He travels the world for Doctors Without Borders and helps children in poor countries whose families' can't afford medical treatment."

And_ yes_, avoidance of a subject was enough of an answer to Jim for him to know he hadn't been _wrong._

"What a saint!" Jim declared, with a snort and then stood up, "Look like you need a refill. I'll go get us some more."

He reached down and picked up both their glasses, one in each hand, and then strolled away.

When he returned, he set down the glasses across from each other, adding "Don't worry. I didn't get them mixed up. No _cooties_."

He sat down again.

But before either Jim or Molly could drink, a stocky young man who had previously been seated at the bar stomped up to their table.

"Hey, you!" he shouted.

"Who, _me_?" Jim pointed to himself, feigning a look of surprise and innocence.

"Yeah, _you_!" the man affirmed, "I saw what you did, you bastard! I saw you put that thing in her drink! What do you think you're doing!"

"What?" Molly exclaimed, glancing instantly at her glass and then back at the man.

"Don't drink that, ma'am." The man warned, "He put something in it. He's trying to drug you! Don't drink it! You should leave. Don't trust him! You really should go."

"Sir, I believe you are mistaken." Jim declared in the most self-righteously posh accent he could fake, "I did nothing of the sort. Apologize to the lady,_ this_ _instant_, for wasting her time and then move along."

Molly looked from the man's face to Jim's face and back and forth and back and forth.

Of course, she knew_ exactly_ who to believe.

Jim always lied and the man had no reason to.

_But what could she do? _

Get up and walk away?

_Yeah right. _

"Are you _sure_?" Molly asked the man.

"I know what I saw." The man asserted, "That criminal drugged your drink."

"No I didn't." Jim shook his head and then turned it to Molly, "Taste it for yourself. I didn't drug it."

Molly clutched the glass.

"Don't!" the man yelled.

Molly took a sip.

What was the worst whatever drug Jim slipped into her drink could do to her…?

…_Kill her… _

That wouldn't be _too _bad.

She took another sip. _No._ not a _sip_. A _gulp._

Molly took a gulp.

"Tastes fine to me." She chirped and then smiled up at the man.

"_See?"_ Jim chirped and then smiled up at the man.

"I'm calling the cops." The man insisted, "Ma'am, I really think you should—"

"Stop flirting with my girlfriend!" Jim roared, suddenly jumping up from the booth and lunging towards the man.

_This was going to be bad._

What would Jim do to this guy who was really only trying to help?

…_Kill him…_

Molly took another gulp, but not of her drink.

"Hey, back off!" the man yelled, backing away from Jim.

Jim stalked towards the man, his hands balling into fists.

Then it all happened so quickly that Molly wasn't even sure what _did_ happen exactly.

Jim was on the floor, knocked on to his butt.

"…_ow_…" he complained, rubbing his cheek where he had just been punched.

"What the …?" Molly squeaked, standing up and going over to him.

She hadn't expected _this _result.

The man was cracking his knuckles and glaring at Jim.

Everyone else in the bar (only about four other people) was staring.

That's when the bartender (the same bartender that had been working when Molly used to come here) came running up, shouting, "Hey, no fighting in here! Get out, get out! Or I'm calling the police! Get out!"

Hurriedly, Molly helped Jim up from the floor and hurriedly, they exited the bar.

Molly knew she could never come back there again.

* * *

><p>"Why did you do that?!" Molly practically screamed at Jim (<em>Moriarty, the dangerous criminal<em>) outside on the street.

_She had forgotten herself. _

"I wanted to get out of that boring bar." Jim shrugged.

"No, no!" Molly dissolved, "I can't do this! Please, just let me go home. I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Please just let me go…"

_She had remembered. _

(Who she was and who _he_ was.)

"I'm not letting you get away that easy." Jim refused, taking her hand before she could even turn to leave and leading (dragging) her down the sidewalk like a frustrated parent would a stubborn child.

* * *

><p>It was around eleven and Molly was feeling lightheaded and flushed when she and Jim reached the long line.<p>

The Eye was open this late on winter holidays and in the warm, summer months.

Now it was practically _freezing _and yet people were lined up in the dark, shivering and huddling together, waiting for their turn to ride the giant observation wheel.

How _romantic._

Well, not the line, but why _wouldn't _it be? Seeing the beautiful London skyline at night from on high?

_Boring..._

Well that's what _normal _people _normally _do on dates.

_Bo-ring!_

"We could leave, you know…" Molly suggested, "…if the line's taking too long and you're getting bored."

"No, no, I'm fine." Jim asserted, tapping his foot impatiently.

Molly wondered just how he could be.

It was very cold but he didn't even have a coat on and he had been punched in the face thirty minutes ago.

Yet, for some reason, he wasn't goosebumped or beginning to bruise at all, which Molly knew wasn't _normal._

As for herself, she could feel the affects of whatever drug he had put in her drink already affecting her.

_What if she passed out…?_

Molly looked ahead at the masses of people standing in the line.

There was going to be at least a twenty more minute wait.

She didn't know if she could stand the cold or even _stand_ that long.

_(She wondered what would happen, in this crowded public space, if she ran screaming away from Jim...) _

"I really think I should go home…" Molly mumbled, massaging her forehead, "I'm not feeling well…"

"You can't just leave me here all alone!" Jim reminded, "Just isn't _polite_."

If it had been anybody else Molly would have believed his sad, desperate, _pouting _face.

"Then let me just go sit down-" she started towards a park bench.

"No." he grabbed her again, "You can't leave me..."

Molly stopped but his hand was still on her arm.

"…but you can lean against me, _if you'd like_…" he added.

It wasn't an offer, though, because Jim had already pulled Molly to him.

He wasn't that much taller than her but she was able to rest her head on his shoulder.

"_There we go_…"

She knew he was grinning as she felt the vibrations of his voice on the side of her head.

A few minutes went by and then Molly's head sprang up when she heard an altercation occurring and a familiar voice.

"I think its way past all your bedtimes, it is…" Sally Donovan told a group of teenagers who were loitering by a tree and sharing a single roll of paper that contained a plant that Molly liked to think was only tobacco.

Instantly, the kids scattered like _rats_ when their den had been discovered.

All they left behind was something small, with a trail of smoke rising from it, that Donovan stamped on a little too harshly.

Clearly, she wasn't happy to be working on Valentine's Day night.

"Oh my god!" Molly panicked, turning her face away from Donovan, "What if she sees me…with _you!_"

"Oh _no_!" Jim feigned, "If she _does_, Molly Hooper's reputation will be irreparably _ruined!_ _Forever!"_

Molly's eyes widened, taking what he had said seriously although she knew it was a joke.

And then she thought what if Donovan _did _see her and Jim.

What if she somehow signaled to Donovan, who would come running over and arrest Jim before he could get away.

_Case closed. _

Sure, some people would_ question_ Molly as to why she had been simply standing in line to ride The Eye with Jim Moriarty on Valentine's Day…

…and then Jim would probably tell the police so many stories about her, about him and her, and they wouldn't even have to be false to be _questionable._

None of that should matter, of course, as long as Jim was behind bars but…

…what would_ Sherlock_ think of her?

If Jim was arrested this way, then Molly wouldn't be the surprisingly brilliant girl nobody believed in that was able to track down and capture Jim Moriarty.

All she would be was the passive, scared little mouse who couldn't say no (too afraid? Too _stupid_?) and _couldn't make up her mind_ (Sherlock or no Sherlock).

(Jim or no Jim…)

"Shhh…!" Molly hushed, begging Jim to quiet down.

"Stop being such a worry wart!" he chuckled, "She won't see you, Molly, you're _invisible_!"

Yes, that was true.

"But she'll see you!" Molly hissed, "You'll be arrested!"

"Wouldn't be so bad." Jim shrugged, "I wouldn't mind being _handcuffed _by the pretty _lady_-cop."

He winked.

Molly rolled her eyes.

Suddenly, on the other side of the line, as if Molly's night couldn't have gotten any worse (_worse_? Was it _that bad_?), Molly saw Anderson and a woman walking through the park.

_Great, another person who could potentially recognize her. _

Sure, he had only seen her once but if he didn't recognize Molly, he'd _definitely _recognize Jim.

Luckily, Anderson seemed to be distraction at the moment.

He and the woman (probably his wife) he was with were arguing, voices almost yelling and arms gesticulating wildly.

Normally, Molly would try to overhear an argument because arguments (especially ones important enough to be had in public) were usually pretty_ interesting_…

…but right now she was too busy looking back and forth from Donovan to Anderson, hoping neither would see her or Jim.

"I really think we should, um…_go_." Molly told Jim, "_Now_…"

"Whatever for?" Jim asked, as though he had no idea what Molly's reasoning was.

Molly was about to give the obvious explanation when the explanation became even more obvious.

Donovan started away from the tree and towards the line and at the same time Anderson and the woman steadily drew closer.

It felt like dogs were hunting her scent and Jim had planted a trail that led right up to her, caught in a mousetrap.

But he wouldn't just let them get_ caught_ like this, _would he_?

Molly decided not to wait and find out.

"There's someone standing on top of it!" she shouted and pointed towards The Eye, "Somebody's up there! He's going to jump!"

Everyone in the line gazed upwards, squinting through the darkness, trying to see the person Molly was pointing at.

This allowed Molly to grab Jim by his arm, pull him out of the line, and drag him away from the crowd that included Donovan and Anderson.

From a safe distance, Molly was finally able to sit down on a bench to catch her breath.

Jim sat down next to her, snickering.

"Line was getting boring, anyway…" he acquiesced, leaning back in the bench and draping an arm right behind her, for the second time, like it was his new hobby. (_Which she_ _was_.)

Molly watched the people in line continue to search in vain for the suicidal climber of The Eye.

She saw Donovan look up and then look at the line.

"Oh, everybody just calm down, already!" she snapped, bitterly, "There's no one up there. Probably some _sick creep's_ idea of a joke…"

"You gonna let her talk about you like that?" Jim asked Molly, still laughing.

She was so glad that for once he was laughing _with_ her instead of _at_ her, even though she wasn't laughing at all.

And then she _was._

Maybe it was her nerves, maybe it was the _drug_...

…or maybe it was a bit funny, after all, Molly admitted to herself.

"Hey, 'least she didn't call me a _'freak'_." She replied.

She wondered if Jim would get it.

He probably would.

Jim laughed again and then whispered as if he was telling a secret, "_You know they're having an affair, right…?"_

"Who?" Molly asked.

He couldn't possibly mean Donovan and _Sherlock._

"No, no, not her and Sherlock…!" Jim explained, snorting, "Sherlock, at least, has _some _taste…Detective _Sally_, not so much…she's screwing _Anderson_."

"What?" Molly sputtered.

"Yeah, I know." Jim grinned, "Fraternization between fellow officers in the force. And he's _married _too. Which makes it all the more _scandalous_."

As _'scandalous' _as going on a date with a murderous criminal for Valentine's Day?

"Does anyone know?"

"_Everyone knows._ Thanks to _Sherlock_."

Molly watched as Donovan pushed through the line that looked practically _disappointed_ that no guy was up there about to jump to his death from the observation wheel.

Once Donovan reached the other side, however, _she_ looked absolutely shocked to see Anderson, who, in turn, looked equally shocked to see her. And then the wife looked shocked and instantly suspicious.

Molly anticipated another argument.

"Let's go…" she said, standing up from the bench.

Jim stood.

* * *

><p><strong>Second half of their date next chapter! <strong>

**_(So you know what to do if you wanna read it...) _**


	14. True or False?

**Hi, there!  
><strong>

**Thanks for all the reviews! Keep 'em coming! (please lol) **

** And I do really hope you like this one...**

* * *

><p>Now Irene, just like Sherlock, was wrapped in traditional Arab desert ropes that covered all but her eyes.<p>

They were running across the packed earth, through the darkness, away from the Al Qaeda encampment where Sherlock had just slashed about a dozen terrorist militants (most of them to death) and saved her life.

_Funny._

The last time she had seen Sherlock, Irene could have sworn he was wishing_ her_ dead.

How he had discovered her location, donned the correct clothing for an ancient beheading ritual and arrived at exactly the right moment Irene attributed to Sherlock just being Sherlock.

_Amazing. _

It was why she_ liked_ him, after all.

"You just saved my life." She said, breathless both because of her nerves and because they were still running.

"Yes." Sherlock acknowledged, without looking at her. He was running, he had just _killed_ people, but he was not out of breath at all.

"Let's have dinner." Irene offered.

"Yes." He accepted.

* * *

><p>"First date?"<p>

"Yeah! How'd you know?"

"I been waiting tables a long time. I know these things."

"Ha, ha, you're _good_."

"So I've been told… Doesn't mean they'll give me the night off, though. What if_ I _wanted to go on a date?...but that's the food service industry, for you. You're lucky_ you_ could just make last minute plans and get outta work tonight."

"How'd you know it was last minute…how'd you know I work nights?"

"I told you. I know these things. 'Sides, nobody goes out to dinner at eleven thirty at night unless they're up that late all the time anyway."

"True, true…but how'd you know it was last minute? Come on, tell me."

"Nah, I'm not gonna tell you. Doesn't matter, anyways, you two look good together. I'm sure it'll work out…'least for tonight. Just trust me, I know these things."

Molly shook her head.

The waiter didn't know _anything._

"Alright, alright." Jim conceded, "I trust you. Now lemme see that drink menu…"

"Oh right! Here you are, sir." The server handed him the leather coated menu, "Should I give you two a couple minutes to decide…?"

"No, no!" Jim smiled, "Stay, stay!"

Now Molly Hooper was no Sherlock Holmes but that didn't mean she couldn't make her own deductions, one in a while.

The waiter, probably in his forties and very tired of the job he thought would only last through university (which he never graduated).

He was also very, obviously _gay. _

(Ever since that incident with Sherlock and 'Jim from IT' in the morgue, Molly had fine-tuned her gaydar.)

The server wasn't even trying to hide it, _in fact_, he was trying to make sure everyone in the room (Jim, his new favorite customer) _knew._

It was evident in his gestures, speech, and even his way of wearing his black and white uniform, all deliberately feminine.

So if the waiter really thought that Jim (his new favorite customer) and Molly looked 'good together', that it would 'work out' and that he knew these things then why was he flirting so aggressively with Jim?

_He was lying._

And…and he must have thought Jim was gay too, since someone his age wouldn't waste time on someone who wouldn't return his advances.

But was Jim gay?

Molly had forgotten to ask. She had been too preoccupied with Sherlock's sexual orientation to when she and Jim had been discussing that subject.

Sure, Jim had said that bit about nothing being absolute and Molly being his exception and all that but how much of that could she really allow herself to believe.

(Don't be _stupid_.)

Molly watched (_jealously?_)from across the tablecloth-ed, candle-lit table as Jim gleefully played along with the waiter.

They were still locked in laughter and _'friendly' _conversation, completely ignoring the (_jealous?)_Molly who sank deeper and deeper into the wooden chair.

_Jim always liked to play these games. _

None of it was _real_…and yet it was probably the only thing real to _him. _

And he always, _always_ took them _too far._

Molly had been uncertain before, hoping for some reason (_why?_) that it was only just a _coincidence_, but now, seeing Jim and the waiter interact, she knew that Jim had been the one to kill that teenaged hotel employee.

To kill and rape.

Molly felt sick to her stomach.

Just when she had become able to be around Jim without sweating, shivering and fidgeting in panic, fear and just plain being _creeped out_, here she was, sweating, shivering and fidgeting _all over again_.

Why?

It wasn't like finding out that 'Jim from IT' was Jim Moriarty for the first time.

She knew who (_what_) Jim was and what he had done (or at least _some_ of it) and what he did for a living.

So _why?_

Either Molly was used to having casual outings with a dangerous criminal or she _wasn't._

One _or_ the other.

But she was _both. _

And (even though this was probably the only time she'd ever get to dine out on gourmet food at a fancy, expensive restaurant) Molly didn't feel much like eating.

However, when Jim decided what wine they were going to have and that it was in keeping with the character of _whoever _was chatting with (up) the waiter to ask Molly if his choice was okay, Molly couldn't help but nod gratefully.

She definitely needed a drink.

Her mind was racing with condemnations.

Condemning _Jim_ for the various things he had done and condemning _herself_ for associating with him and condemning Jim for forcing her to associate with him and condemning herself for not even putting up a fight.

What would Sherlock think if he knew where Molly was tonight and who she was with…?

What would Sherlock _do_ if it had been him visited on Valentine's Day by Jim Moriarty…?

Finally the server left.

_No, wait. _He was back.

With the bottle of wine and then pouring it into two glasses and conversing with Jim again.

(Jealous?)

Why didn't he just pull up a chair and sit down, for god's sake? _Why didn't he just take Molly's…? _

_(Jealous? Jealous? Jealous?)_

(Jealous.)

"Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry!"

Molly jumped up from her seat and backwards (to spare her mother's dress) as the glass of wine spilled and shattered.

Red liquid rushed across the tablecloth like blood and splashed all over the waiter's uniform.

Jim's suit was completely unsullied, as usual he was _clean._

Sitting there calmly, sipping wine, he didn't even seem to react as Molly's drink spilled, glass shattered and she cried out false apologies, grabbing cloth napkins and attempting to soak up the mess she had made.

"Sir, I am so sorry…" she repeated, "Let me just—"

Molly raised a napkin towards the server's shirt.

"No." he said, teeth gritted into a grudging smile, "It's alright. it's alright. I'll take care of it. Have a seat, ma'am. I'll take care of it."

The waiter grabbed the napkins, now pink and wet, and the shards of broken glass from the table and stalked out of the dinning room back to the kitchen.

Two other waiters soon arrived to take care of the soiled tablecloth, replacing it and the plates, and candles, and Molly's glass of wine.

After about six minutes of frantic cleaning, the table was as pristine as it had been when Molly and Jim had arrived and the restaurant had returned to its late-night homeostasis.

The soft piano music was audible again, as was the hum of conversation.

The restaurant was only this crowded at this hour because it was Valentine's Day night, and still it was only about a third full.

It was the kind of place Molly felt out of place in because she could never afford it and didn't have the table-manners or attire, and it was the kind of place Jim felt out of place in because it was too _normal._

"_Alone at last_." Jim sighed and Molly looked up from the menu where everything cost far too much, "Looks like our fellow patrons have had enough _excitement_ for one night and are finally returning to their own _boring_ lives."

It was true.

Knocking over the glass had caused quite the disturbance in the restaurant's atmosphere and everyone had turned to stare at Molly (which was why she was still blushing almost as red as the wine).

They had eyed her the same way the greeter and the waiter had eyed her when she and Jim had come in. _Low class…what did she think she was doing here? _

(Of course, they hadn't looked that way at _Jim. _Molly had no idea if he came from money or not, but either way he could effortlessly be whoever he wanted to be.)

And as for herself,_ she_ had exceeded all their expectations for the inappropriate behavior of a _commoner_ in an upscale restaurant.

"Ignore them." Jim instructed, sensing her thoughts, "They'd do the same to you."

"_Everybody does_…" she mumbled wistfully..

_"I_ don't." Jim smirked.

_Adorable_, Molly thought.

(No! Don't be _stupid_.)

_Adorable like those pretty colored little frogs with the big black eyes that could poison you with a touch. _

Molly took what could only be called a_ chug_ of wine, _for bravery. _

"That was you, right?" she asked, "The boy at the hotel?"

"Mm-hm." Jim nodded, grinning proudly, "Does everyone I kill end up on your morgue table?"

"They always assign me the worst ones." Molly explained, allowing herself to smile as well.

(She thought she was funny, even if Sherlock never did.)

"They always assign you the most _interesting_ ones." Jim corrected, "And secretly you're thankful for that. It's the reason you met Sherlock, after all. It's the reason you met _me_…"

"I liked them _before_." Molly admitted, "I always found it interesting, my job. I do my job because I _love_ it. It's not always all about you and Sherlock."

"_Yes it is._" Jim declared, smirking, "Kinda like a _religion _to me, almost, Sherlock is. Instead of _'what would Jesus do?' _like they taught me in Sunday School, I think 'what would _Sherlock_ do?'…_don't you_?"

Molly took a sip.

(At least she tried to, anyway.)

Her glass was empty.

And the waiter wasn't kind enough to leave the bottle on the table and it didn't seem like he would be coming back any time soon.

Molly took a breath.

(At least she could do that.)

"Sometimes." Molly admitted, with a sigh.

There really wasn't any point in lying to Sherlock _or _to Jim and _especially_ not about Sherlock to Jim.

(Lying about Jim to Sherlock, _however,_ was something Molly _had _to do if the subject ever did come up.)

"He's not a hero, you know." Jim told her, "Sure he helps solve crimes and catch killers but that doesn't make him a good man. He's killed people, you know…just like me."

Molly was shocked to hear this.

She was glad her glass had been empty or else there probably would have been a second spill that night.

(And Molly knew Jim would have just _loved_ that. He loved her reactions to things. But since the option of spraying wine all over the table again was unavailable, he was content to enjoy her widened eyes and mouth, and raised eyebrows. (He loved those too.))

_Who?_ Molly wanted to ask. _Why?_

But she didn't.

Instead, she calmed her expression and said, "It's not 'just like you'. You kill people for _fun_. Sherlock wouldn't _do _that. He'd have a reason, a _good_ reason if he ever…um, _did._ You _don't_. _You _just do it for _fun._"

"How do _you_ know what Sherlock would do?" Jim asked, leaning back in his chair, crossing a leg and raising an eyebrow, "How do _you_ know he wouldn't just commit the _perfect_ crime, just for the _fun_ of it? Just to see if anybody would be able to _catch _him? How do you _know_?"

"Well…I know because I…" Molly trailed off.

How _did_ she know?

She couldn't say that she knew Sherlock very well at all. How would _she _know what he would or wouldn't _do_?

Just because Sherlock and Jim were 'enemies' didn't mean they were opposites, did it?

She considered the things she had heard different detectives say about Sherlock (all of which she had previously dismissed) that he was a psychopath, that solving crimes wouldn't be enough for him, that he liked murders and vicious deaths, and bloodies bodies a bit _too _much.

Could Sherlock _really_ be a killer?

Were some of the unsolved homicide victims she had performed autopsies on, actually_ his_ handy-work?

…_no._

There was _no way._

No matter what anyone (even Jim) said, Sherlock was good.

And then she considered that Jim could have just been lying.

He did do that, after all.

_A lot_.

Especially when he knew his lies would unnerve her and generate these expressive reactions from her that he just _loved _to laugh at.

So that was it.

_Jim was lying. _

"You hardly know him..." he said, and then added with a chuckle, "You know _me_ so much better."

_Jim was telling the truth._

And, like she usually did when it came to Sherlock and Jim and the _truth_, Molly was _ashamed. _

"No, I _don't_." Molly denied, "I don't know Sherlock, that's true, but I don't know _you _either."

"Didn't I warn you about lying to yourself—"

"I'll stop 'lying' to myself when _you_ do." Molly interrupted boldly and then quickly clarified, "…stop lying to _me_, that is. _I'll_ stop lying to me when _you_ stop lying to me."

"Molly, I've _never _lied to you." Jim stated, "That faggy IT guy did, _for sure_, but _I _never did. _I _never lied to you."

_So what, then?_

Molly was supposed to believe that Jim hadn't lied to her since he was pretending to be 'Jim from IT'?

_She didn't think so. _

"I mean, why bother, anyway?" Jim continued, "Lying to the same person gets boring. _Fast._ Besides, an _ugly_ truth is often far more _interesting_ than even the most_ elaborate_ lie. And the truth is _almost always_ ugly…"

He was right, of course.

Just like Sherlock, Jim was always, _always_ right.

"Tell me the truth then…." Molly began, finally, after a long moment of contemplation, "…why _me?_"

"Why _you_? You're going to have to be more specific than that, darling. I can't answer 'why _you_' if you're wondering why God decided, for some reason, to _punish _you by giving you the most miserable, _lonely_ existence _imaginable_…because, frankly, I've got no _clue_ what you did to _deserve_ it. In fact, 'til I met you, Molly, I didn't think fate could _be_ so…_unkind._"

"You know what I mean. I mean it could have been _anyone_ you used to get close to Sherlock. People much closer than me. Like Lestrade or Doctor Watson…or even his landlady!...so why _me_?"

Jim laughed and leaned forward in his chair towards Molly.

"Well, for one thing…" he started, "you were _available. _No one else was _using _you…But, you're right, it's not only that. It_ was _you. You were the only person who knew Sherlock and didn't think he was a _'freak'_ or a _'psychopath'_ or a detective version of _Rainman_…and not just that. You see him for what he really is, which is more than just a genius. You're the only person, the only other person than me, that Sherlock Holmes is not just a man…but a _god_."

Molly tried to decipher what she was hearing.

She didn't think that Sherlock was a _'god'._

At first she just that he was an _awkward_ but _adorable_ guy, who was a lot smart and maybe a little shy, that she really wanted to go to coffee with.

Now she knew he was a brilliant genius (and with him, that description was not redundant) who solved mysteries like they were children's arithmetic and so could get away with being rude to (almost) everyone and would never,_ ever_ go to coffee with her.

Still, Molly had to scrub the _meaning_ of Jim's metaphors before she could understand the polished _truth._

Maybe, in Jim's mind, a crush (ridiculous infatuation (unrequited love (_obsession_))) was the same thing as _worship_, and in Jim's mind, the only being worthy of worship would be a _god._

_He must really love Sherlock too. _

...but then…

"…but then…why me?" Molly inquired, "After all that whole thing with Sherlock and the bombs was over…why still pay any attention to me at all? Why play all those pranks? Why follow me home on Christmas?...why come to my door _tonight_? Why _me_…?"

Jim caught his smile fading and so widened it.

"_I was bored_." He answered, once again, leaning back in his chair away from her.

He yawned for affect, patting his open mouth exaggeratedly.

Jim was telling the truth…

…and yet, he was _lying._

Molly has no response to this and no time to think of one.

Conveniently, a rare stroke of _luck_ occurred for Molly then as a server (different than the one from before and much less _friendly_) arrived to take their orders.

Jim spoke immediately, telling the waitress what he and Molly (without even consulting her) wanted to eat that late night.

The waitress scrawled into her notepad and then took away the menus while Molly hoped to _god_ that Jim didn't decide to leave her with the bill as some sick joke.

It was silent, again, for a while after that (as Molly was never good at starting conversations and so was waiting for Jim to speak).

She wondered if she would get a more in-depth answer to her question, but seriously doubted that Jim would grudgingly tell her whatever she wanted to know.

If he wanted to tell the truth, he would just keep quiet rather than lying.

And if he wanted to _lie…_

Molly knew that if Jim_ lied_ to her, _really wanted_ to lie to her, then she would _believe_ it.

And then that that _lie_ could very easily set her mind a flame, crackling and sparking until it exploded like a firecracker.

He wouldn't even have to strike a match. He'd just say the word and _she'd do it to herself. _

"_You know_…" Jim mused, breaking the silence like cracking together two spark-rocks, "I sort of rather_ liked_ being the only one to_ see_ Sherlock…"

Match _lit._

"I've got to go to the restroom." Molly said abruptly, standing up.

Jim watched her uninterestedly as she pushed in her chair and crossed the room, eventually finding the bathroom.

* * *

><p>The bathroom was as elegant as the rest of restaurant and had several stalls, one of which was occupied.<p>

Molly didn't venture into one of these stalls.

Instead she went over to one of the sinks and splashed her cheeks with cold water as if it could wash the flush from her face and the fear from her nerves and the guilty _shame_ from her mind.

Would she_ die_ tonight?

Molly finally allowed herself to fully consider this possibility, which she had been forcibly ignoring for months now ever since Jim Moriarty had come into her life.

_Would she be alright with that, if she did…?_

Jim was _jealous._

Molly knew jealous when she saw it, when she _felt_ it.

Molly was no threat, no threat at _all_ (Jealous, jealous. Molly was _jealous_.) to Jim's 'relationship' to Sherlock and yet he was_ jealous _(Jealous, jealous. Jim was _jealous._).

All this had been some elaborate_ lie _so that he could avenge that ugly _truth_.

And he was going to _kill _her for it.

_Probably tonight. _

He had led her on, made her feel _safe_ around him, made her feel _acknowledged_…

…and now he was going to _kill_ her.

He was going to kill her and cherish that look of surprise on her face when he did it.

(Wide eyes and mouth, even wider than normal. This would be her _best_ one yet, her_ best_ and her _last. _He always did love that_ look_.)

And then, after that, Jim Moriarty would once again be the only one to _worship _Sherlock Holmes, his own personal _god._

Molly wondered if there really was a God. She wondered if she would go to Heaven. She didn't think she would…

No.

_What would Sherlock do? _

Sherlock wouldn't just do _nothing_ and let himself be killed like this.

_No. _

Sherlock would _fight._

Fight, Molly, fight.

But Molly _couldn't._ She never once had been able to stand up for herself…

So _run_, then. Run and _hide._

Molly's always been good at_ running_, always been good at _hiding. _

Molly looked up from the bowl of the sink where the water sank down the drain like sand falling to the bottom of an hour glass.

Time was running out.

She couldn't stay in the bathroom too long or Jim would surely get suspicious.

Molly looked into the mirror.

She knew she wouldn't be able _to look herself in the eye_ if she willingly went along with any of Jim's_ 'plans'_ anymore.

And so she looked into the mirror and _made up her mind. _

_Now _Molly ventured into one of the stalls.

Locking it behind her and bending over the toilet, Molly forced herself to throw up (a talent she had learned and inherited from her skinny, dead mother).

She wanted to get whatever _drug_ Moriarty had dumped into her drink earlier that evening_ out_ of her.

_What if it was poison? _She thought, _What if it kills me? _

No.

With him, with _him and her,_ it was _personal._

If Moriarty was going to kill_ her_ (and he was going to kill her) he would do it _personally._

(Molly regretted ever_ wanting _him to keep his _promise_.)

But she wasn't going to_ let_ him just_ kill_ her.

If she died tonight, she would _fight._

The vomit was red like the wine and like blood.

It was _too late_, (Molly had a medical degree, she wasn't _stupid)_, she knew the drug, (_whatever it was)_, was already well into her system.

Molly stood, wiped her mouth with toilet paper and flushed everything down the toilet wishing she could just flush away her problems with Moriarty too.

She exited the stall and went straight for the courtesy table to gargle mouth wash and stop her throat from burning.

_What now?_

Molly was still _burning_, her whole body _burning_, her mind _burning_…

_The window. _

Molly unlatched the window and pushed it up and open, instantly feeling the chilly February breeze against her face.

"Are you alright?"

Molly turned to see an older, well dressed woman emerge from the occupied stall and start washing her hands.

"I'm fine." Molly told her, "Just needed some air, that's all."

"_You sure_…?" the woman questioned, raising eyebrow in both concern and suspicion.

Had Molly a boiling point she would have steamed at Lestrade long ago for asking her that question one too many times.

But Molly was quiet, Molly was polite, Molly was _fine_…

"…I'm sure…" She nodded and turned back to the window.

Once she heard the bathroom door close and knew the woman was gone, Molly lifted the screen out of her way.

She could just climb out of this window, run away into the night, away from Moriarty and _live._

Sure, she'd probably have to leave London and keep _running_ and keep_ hiding_ forever, if Moriarty decided to take her ditching their 'date' _personally,_ but she would _live._

_And would she be alright with that, if she did…?_

Molly could feel her own panic and Moriarty's drug synchronizing to create the sweating, shaking, shivering _mess_ that she was.

_And the alcohol she had had tonight probably wasn't helping her either…_

…or maybe it _was._

Suddenly, a _calm_ overtook Molly like that cool water and that winter breeze.

Just go up to him and _confront_ him.

It's only just _Jim, _after all.

And what would _Jim_ think of her, if she just ran away instead of standing up to him and fighting back?

If Molly died tonight, she would _fight. _

(And _hell_, maybe after she was gone, Sherlock would finally respect her for taking on Moriarty.)

(Maybe _Jim _would finally respect her…)

Molly practiced it a few times to her own reflection in the mirror.

Are you… going to _kill _me...? _No_. Not like _that._ Are you going to kill me? _Flat._ Direct. Not a question. You_ are_ going to kill, me right? _You're going to kill me_. You're going to kill me…_aren't you?_ You are. I know you are. You're going to kill me. Kill me…_kill me_…

Molly nodded at herself and then left the restroom, walking back to the table (slowly but determinedly, _for effect_).

* * *

><p>"Oh, you're back!" Jim greeted when she returned, "Food's here, by the way. I waited for you so it's gone a bit cold…"<p>

Molly didn't even look at the plates or sit down, she just stared into Jim's face, trying to coax out the words she wanted to say to Moriarty.

_Kill me…Kill me…_

It was quiet for so long, until Jim's laughter (which he tried to hold in but finally couldn't help but choke out) sputtered at Molly's overly concentrated face.

"_My god_, Molly! Don't look at me like that, I can't _take_ it. _I'm not going to kill you!_ Why would I _kill _you? You haven't yet _lived_."

_How come Jim could always read her mind? _

Sherlock read bodies, he read faces, he read crime scenes and it was all amazing…

…but _Jim._ Jim, Molly was _sure_ could read _minds._

And it was _more _than 'all amazing', it was _omniscient black magic._

(…_divine_…)

"I…no, I-I didn't think—I never said-"Molly stammered, that beautiful shocked expression that Jim loved in her eyes and mouth, but it was no use.

(Molly had never been a good at _lying_.)

And Jim was still laughing, albeit and quieter chuckle now.

_Again, Molly had been doused in cold water._

Jim had struck fear and panic into her with a few words only to put it right back out again with a laugh.

And he had done it on purpose, Molly realized.

(That was some _power_, wasn't it? But was it the kind of _power_ you hated someone for…or was it the kind of power for which you _worshiped _them? She couldn't decide.)

Molly found herself giggling, out of nervousness, embarrassment and _relief._

"So now that that's settled…" Jim said, "Let's have dinner."

God, it was almost _twelve _and the restaurant was now all but empty at he wanted to have dinner.

"…I'm not hungry..." Molly stated, the memory of vomit still swirling in her stomach.

"Yeah…me, neither…" Jim shrugged, standing up and pushing in his chair, then removing his coat from its back.

The expertly (tiny (but (ridiculously) expensive)) sliced and diced and cooked meals sat cold on the cloth-ed table.

"…oh." Molly replied, watching him.

Then_ why_ had they come to this restaurant again if neither of them were hungry?

Oh yeah.

Jim wanted to play _normal _and scare Molly.

"Let's go." Jim decided, putting on his coat and then starting towards the restaurant's exit.

Molly put on her coat and followed.

As they quickly passed them, employees were cleaning off tables and clearing dishes.

But before they made it out the door, Jim's _'friend' _the server appeared, jumping between them and their (sneaky, hasty) retreat.

He had changed his shirt.

"Your bill, _sir_." He growled through gritted teeth, and handed Jim the slip of paper.

"Oh. Right." Jim acknowledged, taking it, "Pen?"

Without waiting for the waiter to give it to him, Jim pulled the pen from the his shirt pocket.

Against the greeter's desk, Jim bent to write on the bill. Molly didn't see him take out cash or a credit car.

"Here." Jim pushed the slip of paper and the pen into the server's chest.

Grabbing and pulling Molly along by the wrist, Jim hurried out the door.

* * *

><p>Like teenagers, they ran across the street and then for several blocks away from the fancy restaurant.<p>

"What did you just _do_?" Molly exclaimed, as they ran.

"_We_, Molly," Jim corrected, "What did _we _just do."

"What did 'we' just do?" Molly cried, "_Dine and dash_?"

"Absolutely _not_!" Jim declared.

"Then what—what did you write on that check?" Molly asked.

"IOU04I80." Jim answered, matter-of-factly.

"What?"

"I owe you nothing for I ate nothing."

"You what-but—oh, _god_."

"Well we 'ate nothing', did we not?"

"I—well I guess _so._ I guess we didn't."

Molly smiled and she and Jim stopped running.

He didn't let go of her wrist.

They were on some street, somewhere in the city of London.

Molly couldn't tell because it was dark and she was under the affects of both alcohol and drugs, courtesy of Jim.

_That was probably also why she was laughing so hard. _

Never before in her life would she have considered leaving a restaurant without paying, even if she genuinely couldn't afford it.

But then again, never before in her life would she have considered spending Valentine's Day with a wanted murderer.

_And then Jim Moriarty came along. _

_Most_ crimes, Molly decided, were crimes of opportunity.

_Most_ people, Molly decided, were innocent until _tempted_…no _coerced _into _sin._

(But of course, there were always those_ exceptions_… (Jim.))

Excuses, excuses.

'_The devil made me do it.'_

But _hadn't_ he...?

"My, my, _my dear_, I don't think I've ever seen you in _this_ good a mood." Jim commented at Molly's laughter.

It was _true._

And Molly continued to giggle and giggle.

None of this, _none of this_ was _her fault. _

The drug was making her like this; the devil was making her do it.

And she was glad (so _sue_ her) it was such a _rush _breaking the rules. _Why hadn't she tried it before? _

Why hadn't she _lived? _

(Of course, this was all the drug and the alcohol and the nerves talking. _Not Molly._ And she'd regret everything in the morning and blah, blah, blah, blah, _blah_…)

"I don't think I've ever _been_ in '_this_ good a mood'!" Molly declared.

Jim laughed with her, now, _with_ her and pulled her by the wrist he still held into some sort of dance.

Molly bet Jim probably knew all the sophisticated waltzes…

…but this was _just having fun_ and he was just having fun and Molly was just having fun and _they _were just having fun.

Jim twirled Molly and then she accidentally (on purpose) tripped and he captured her in his arms.

Molly was still giggling against his body, warm in the cold night, when she felt his chest no longer rising and falling with laughter but with steady breath.

She tried her best to calm herself and stop being so _giddy, _leaning into him and closing her eyes and he stroked her back.

This was _crazy._ This was _stupid._ But this was_ not _her fault.

The drug and the devil were making her do it.

"…if that's _true_…" Jim whispered into her forehead, referring to her earlier statement "…then why _Sherlock_…?..._Why not me?"_

Molly froze.

And shivered.

This night had become cold again.

She pulled away from Jim so that she could look him in the fact under the light of the streetlamps.

It was a legitimate question (accusation, almost).

Why _Sherlock?_

Why _not_ Jim?

Molly couldn't answer logically a question of the illogical (stupid, crazy, not her _fault_) heart.

_But that didn't matter. _

That didn't matter because Molly knew_ jealousy_ when she saw it (because she herself had felt it so many times...)

Jim was _jealous._

"I…I don't _know_…" Molly mumbled, looking away from him, "I'm feeling _sick_. I want to go home now…"

"So _soon_?" Jim feigned, "Ah, but the night is _young_…!"

"I really, really want go home now." Molly repeated, pleading almost, "I need to go home. _Please_, take me back home…"

"Alright, alright _fine_." Jim groaned, rolling his eyes, "I'll call a cab-"

"What drug did you give me?!" Molly exclaimed, suddenly falling forwards towards him, "I think I'm going to faint!"

"I told you I didn't give you anything." Jim snorted, shaking his head and reaching into his pocket for his phone, "Stand up, you're not_ that_ drunk."

Molly steadied herself, staring at Jim as he spoke on the phone.

She was dizzy and her stomach was _churning and churning_…

"Alcohol affects your body faster and more strongly when you don't eat." Molly stated, "I didn't eat anything for at least three hours…"

"You never eat anything." Jim dismissed, still shaking his head and rolling his eyes, "Just snack foods and cereal…not very _healthy_. Just what _would _your _mother_ say?"

_No._

Molly definitely did _not _want to think about her mother right now.

"Still," she said, "The alcohol's going to affect me more…even if you _didn't_ drug me."

"I didn't drug your drink." Jim insisted, "That man was _crazy._ He just wanted to _steal_ you away from me…"

_Sure._

Now _Molly_ was rolling her eyes.

Jim told her he never lied to her, but then, that _itself _could have been a lie.

(Don't be _stupid_.)

(Not her fault, not her fault, not her fault.)

Molly could see her world spinning and the light at the end of the tunnel.

No, nevermind…that was just the taxi pulling up to the curb.

And it wasn't just a _taxi_, Jim had gone ahead and called a classy_ towncar_ like the one Molly had seen parked outside of Sherlock's that day.

_What a gentleman. _

And now the consulting criminal, the mass murderer,_ the_ Jim Moriarty was just going to put Molly into a car and send her home and let her get away like that.

_What a gentleman. _

He even opened the door for her and told the driver her address.

And then he got in.

_The gentleman_ was escorting her safely home.

* * *

><p>"So what do <em>normal<em> people _normally do_…?" Jim asked, "…after _normal _first dates?"

He was watching her, casually leaning against the wall as she fumbled through her pockets for her keys and then her keys for the key to her apartment.

Clumsy as usual, but _more _than usual.

(Not her fault, not her fault, not her fault. It was the alcohol. It was the drug.)

"…this isn't our first date." Molly corrected, "…it's our _fourth_."

(...if one counted the coffee-dates with 'Jim from IT' (and Molly _did.))_

She had found the key, but she hesitated to put it into the lock.

Instead, she turned away from the door to face him.

"So what do _normal_ people _normally _do…?" Jim rephrased, "…after _normal_ 'fourth' dates?"

"You tell me." Molly shrugged, insinuation in the guise of feigned ignorance.

She was _brave_ tonight (early morning).

_It was the drug. _

"Well…!" Jim started, taking in a deep breath for effect and holding up a hand to count fingers on, "…there's escort to the door, _check_. Kiss on the cheek, _check_."

He leaned in to give her and peck on the cheek.

She turned her face and he got her lips.

But as quickly as it had began it ended when Molly pulled away.

Jim raised an eyebrow.

"That's all first date stuff." She said flatly, _boredly_, rolling her eyes, "This is our _fourth _date."

"…and what, Molly, do _normal_ people _normally_ do on 'fourth dates'? _Pray tell_…"

"_They come inside_…"

And Molly pushed the key into the lock and opened the door.

* * *

><p><strong>Now, let us all use our skills of deduction to deduce what happens next. <strong>

**Keeping it to T rating for now, lol and sticking to that old writing rule 'write what you know'. also for now lol. **

**Hope some of the narrative innuendo wasn't too silly, it made me laugh but idk, obviously I'm weird sometimes. **

** And I hope you all like it and weren't disappointed and**** idk...maybe I'll be able to bring myself to get a bit more _graphic. _**

**lol. **

**._..maybe. _**

**What are _your_ opinions?**


	15. Shame

**...sorry, no 'graphic'.**

**I explained to most of you why lol. (lacking maturity, etc) **

**...Sorry... **

** But anyway, thanks so much for all the reviews, I love you all so much! **

** Filler(ish) chapter, but nesscary. **

**Kinda short. Sorry. **

**Posting a longer one tommorow tho (hopefully)...**

** Hope you like!**

* * *

><p>Molly remembered the night she had come home to find that <em>he<em> had somehow snuck in and disorganized her whole flat, putting everything out of order so that none of it made sense, none of it was as it should be and none of it was _normal._

She sat up.

Toby's eyes were glinting at her in the dark.

_Judging_ her.

Molly did not turn on the lamp on her bedside table as she got out of bed.

It was almost twelve in the afternoon, she was already late for work and there was really no point calling in sick now.

Molly closed all the blinds tight in her apartment, even though there was no point, and she locked the front door, even though there no point, and she still would not turn the lights on even though there was _no point._

Was she going to cry?

_Yes. _

Was she going to throw up?

_Right now. _

Molly rushed into the bathroom, and in the blackness bent over the outline of the toilet and vomited through a sob.

Why hadn't _he_ stayed?

_He would have loved to see her like this. _

In fact, it was probably what _he_ was trying to accomplish (among other things).

(_His fault. his fault. his fault_.)

When she rose and washed her face and drank and glass of water and spit it out, Molly did not turn on the light and Molly did not look at herself in the mirror.

(_Could_ not.)

She could believe herself, what she had _done _(and with _whom_).

How could she have been so _stupid? _

Molly remembered how her stepmother warned her countless times about the _dangerous_ men who only wanted _one thing_ and would do _anything and everything _to get it.

_How could she have been so stupid…? _

"_I'm so lucky to have found your father."_ Molly's stepmother had said,_ "He's a good man, Molly. I hope you find someone like him."_

And _who_ had _Molly_ found?

(…well, no one, really.)

Who had _found_ _her_?

(His fault. his fault. his fault.)

Molly showered in water that singed her skin and ripped the sheets from her bed, stuffing them into a trash bag.

There was no way she was taking them down to the laundry room.

What if somebody _saw_ her?

What if, somehow, they _knew…?_

Toby followed Molly as she went about her 'chores', mewing and staring at her.

He _knew._

Worse was, that _she_ knew.

Oh how Molly had hoped it had all just been a dream, although she had known it was not and the flowers in vase still sitting on her kitchen counter proved it.

Their colors looked faded in the dark of the room and Molly realized that they were probably most of the only color in her flat, the rest of her home being shades of beige and gray and white.

For this virtue alone Molly didn't throw them out.

(No, _not_ because_ he_ gave them to her. _Definitely not_.)

In whatever light that managed to creep into her apartment through the cracks in the blinds, Molly fed her cat but not herself.

She couldn't stay here.

What if _he_ came back?

And so Molly went to work.

* * *

><p>Jim didn't like to sleep.<p>

Molly apparently _did_, as sleep had slept until one in the afternoon that day (yesterday) and was now sleeping once again after almost exactly twelve hours.

Jim guessed he must have tired her out.

But who could have known Molly had it in her?

_Jim did. _

He _knew _she had 'it' in her but seeing 'it' outside of her, manifest in her actions, had almost put Jim into the _shock_ that was Molly's average state whenever he was around.

He never would have known Molly could be so…_explosive._

He knew she couldn't be that experienced and so just _where_ had she learned _all that_…?

Jim _knew. _

It had been from the _'romance'_ movie (sentimental porn disguised as a chick-flick) she had been watching when he had arrived.

(She must have seen it several times before, then.)

Anyway, Jim had expected a clumsy, awkward, insecure _mess_…which Molly probably _would_ have been- _had she not been drunk and believing that she had been drugged. _

It was funny what people would _do_ when they thought that they could get away with it.

(Avoid the punishment, the judgment from others…

…avoid the guilt, the shame from within themselves.)

But sooner or later, Molly would have to take responsibility for her actions.

(Her fault. her fault. her fault.)

Like a man, Molly had fallen asleep almost right afterwards (or, at least, she had pretended to). It was because she was drunk and thought she had been drugged and it was easier than having that _little chat_.

'_was it as good for you as it was for me?' _

'_no…but don't feel bad. it's always like that for me.'_

It had been _a long damn time_ for Molly, _obviously_, and so, for her, any _'it'_ would be _'good'._

As for Jim, however, it was always easier for him to 'get off' on the _invigorating innuendo_ of The Game than on even the kinkiest sex.

And Jim just being Jim while Molly was some happy-go-unlucky-in-love-that-still-fucks-a-whole-fucking-lot protagonist of a dirty rom-com, wasn't the biggest turn on.

Still, Molly seemed to have enjoyed it and it was all _adorable._

And now, Molly was asleep and had been for maybe a half an hour or so.

Curled up in a fetal position, _yes she was adorable_. But it was time for Jim to get up.

The digital clock on the nightstand read _'2:15' _when he'd awoken but it was ten minutes fast because Molly always so afraid of being late.

Toby's eyes glowed at Jim in the dark from where he sat on the dresser and had been watching from the whole time.

Jim patted the blanket beside him and the cat came pouncing towards him. Once Toby had hopped up on the bed and rubbed up against Jim, Jim pet him until he purred and finally fell asleep next to Molly, curled up just like her.

Then, Jim stood up and re-dressed in the dark. He considered taking a shower but decided it would be too loud.

_He didn't want to wake the 'sleeping beauty'. _

And yet he kissed her, not on the lips this time, but on the cheek like he had on Christmas, and then tucked her in and left, closing the front door quietly behind him.

In the hallway Jim finally was able to check his phone (which had been politely silenced the entire date).

_Five missed calls and ten texts. _

Ew.

Jim did _not_ want to answer this person, who was always _obsessively_ in his business.

Groaning and rolling his eyes, Jim slipped the phone back into his pocket and continued through the hall out of the apartment building.

It was early morning, and so, _of course_, no one was up and around to see him in the building but if someone had, Jim, _of course_, wouldn't have cared.

Was this a _'walk-of-shame'_, leaving the residence of someone he had just done the deed with 'the morning after'?

_(Did men even have those? or were those parades of pride?)_

Jim didn't care, that was all so _boring_ and _normal_, just like having a date for Valentine's Day and sleeping with a girl (a _GIRL!_) that he could actually be considered to actually be _dating_.

(…Maybe Jim did have something to be _ashamed _of, after all.)

* * *

><p>Head looking down the entire walk, train ride and path through the hospital (even though there was <em>no point<em> since nobody noticed her anyway), Molly finally reached the morgue at around two in the afternoon.

Surely someone she passed would notice that she was late, would comment, would _know_…

But Molly's journey to her job was uninterrupted and so she decided to walk right past her table and continue into the next room.

The lab.

Luckily no was in there.

She locked the doors and kept the lights off.

It was simple blood test.

Molly had done it all the time on the blood of the bodies she examined, and on the blood of _whoever_ Sherlock asked her to _whenever_ he asked her to.

….But on herself...?

If someone was to see her now, sticking herself with a needle and drawing blood from the vein in her arm that she had found in the dark, they would _know. _

There were no bandages (why would there be? It was a morgue, after all) and so Molly dressed her wound with a paper towel and put back on her white labcoat (careful not to stain it so no one would _know_) to cover it.

She put the vial of blood (unlabeled) into the machine and let it run.

Now she would have to _wait._

* * *

><p>"Sherlock! …You're back!"<p>

"'Back'?"

"Yes 'back'. Back home. You were gone all yesterday and half of today."

"Brilliant deduction, John. How long did it take you to discern that?"

"Sherlock—"

"No. Don't tell me. The cup and plates from your breakfast, _toast_, you burnt it, are in the sink but not yet washed…you're tired. That means you went to bed late but woke up early anyway. There's trash from Chinese food in the bin, probably leftovers in the fridge. _Delivery_, not take out, they use different bags for that. You didn't leave the house all last night. You would have noticed I wasn't here as soon as you got home from work that afternoon…but that doesn't mean anything. You wouldn't have noticed I was _gone_ until I hadn't come home in hours and you couldn't reach me. You discerned that I was gone at approximately ten thirty three last night…although you were suspicious a lot sooner."

"Ten thirty three…_how_…there's _no way_ anyone could…how did you _know_ it was-?"

"_Simple._ You decided that it was strange, even for _me_, to be away for eight hours without answering a text and so you decided at ten thirty that I was gone and that you'd call in an hour if I didn't get back. Of course, eleven o'clock is when your show starts and you got distracted by the pre-title 'hook' for three minutes but then quickly remember to call me. I didn't answer and so you waited up almost till morning before finally falling asleep right there on the couch and then waking up four hours later and making yourself breakfast. You then called in sick to work and have been waiting for me right here ever since. Am I right? _Of course I am_."

"…You cheated."

"_Cheated_?"

"No—no, I mean, you saw my texts and the times I sent them and called. That's how you knew."

"How's that 'cheating'?"

"Well it's not the same as like, you know, figuring that all out from like…the way I'm sitting or something—"

"Last night you sat on the middle cushion, it's still indented from that and to create such a long lasting impression in that consistency of cushion at your weight it would require hours of continues sitting. You were leaning backwards when you sat there. Now you're tired of that position so you're sitting straight up on the right cushion. You have pillows behind you, against your back because it hurts from sleeping on the couch. That indicates that you—"

"You know what, Sherlock. Nevermind. Just…_no_."

"_What?_ I actually find it _adorable_, John, that you waited up Valentine's Day night for me—"

"It's not like _that_, I wasn't just _waiting _or anything. I was watching telly, you know, doing other things. It wasn't like I was watching the door. I just thought it was well, _weird_ that you weren't replying to my texts…_especially_ since I know now that you got them."

"I didn't at the time. Your text messages and missed calls arrived when I returned. My phone didn't have service where I was."

"…and are you going to _share _where you were?"

"I was having dinner with someone."

"What?...Like a _date_? You..._Sherlock Holmes_…_having dinner_ with someone?…on a _date_?... on _Valentine's Day_? Perhaps the world _is_ reaslly coming to an end…"

"Well, anything can happen. Like, for example, John Watson, the man with 2.3 girlfriends per month, being alone on that ridiculously sentimental manufactured holiday-"

_"2.3?_ How's that even possible? there can't even be 2.3 of a human-"

"Math, John. Division. '_Primary school stuff'_ like the sun going 'round the earth or whatever, although much less _useless. _Crucial, even, mathematical ability is. So much so, in fact, that in primary school I had Mycroft acquire me a tutor which I'm sure he could do the same for you if you-"

"I know how do to math, Sherlock. Don't change the subject. Who were you 'having dinner' with."

"…a woman."

"…_Alright._ Good for you, then Sherlock, good for you. How-"

"Oh, so you've deduced that I'm not gay now. Good for you, then, John, good for you."

"I wasn't going to say-"

"No you weren't going to say that. You were just going to politely confine it to your thoughts. Pointless, really, the way people _censor_ themselves…"

"What I was going to say was 'how did it go?'"

"I was out all night and didn't come back until afternoon. _Deduce_, John."

* * *

><p>When he got outside of the building, Jim started down the sidewalk, wondering if he should call a car to pick him up or if he should just enjoy the freezing night air.<p>

Immediately, he heard footsteps behind him.

_Boots._ It was always_ combat boots. _

Jim spun around, standing at attention and saluting.

"Sir yes _sir!_ Captain Sergeant General Private _sir_!"

Sebastian Moran stood blank-faced, arms at his side, but only loosely (although one was twitching as though it wanted to raise up and return salute).

"It's Moran, sir." He said.

"Oh I know. I'd never forget you, Sebastian." Jim smirked, assuming his usual leisurely demeanor, "I just was a little…_fuzzy_ on your _rank._ Remind me of it again, will you?"

"I don't have a rank." Moran stated.

"….yes you do." Jim countered, "I remember now. It's 'one', isn't it? _Number one_…am I correct… _sir?_"

"You are, sir." Moran affirmed, deciding that it was best to pick his battles.

"I _knew_ it, _'number one' sir_!" Jim exclaimed, clapping in exaggeratedly childish joy, "…so how's number _'zero'_, then? I assume he _wants _something..."

"My employer's message is simple, sir." Moran declared, "_Stop._"

"Stop?" Jim repeated.

"Yes, sir." Moran confirmed, "_Stop_."

"Sounds like a telegram." Jim snorted, "What the hell's that supposed to mean _'stop'_, anyway?"

"He said you would know." Moran replied.

" 'Stop'… 'stop'!..._ssssssssss_top…." Jim hissed, enjoying the taste of 's' on his tongue, "How_ eloquent_. Can I get that in writing?"

"He said you would say that." Moran responded flatly, "He said to tell you that you _can. _Just check your texts, sir."

Jim chuckled at this.

"Both of you must really have _nothing_ better to do if he's sending you out to find me just so you can tell me to read my text messages. But _alright._ Fine, _fine_. I'll do it. _For you, '_number one', _sir._ Just cause you came all this way. "

He pulled out his phone and browsed through it, snickering to himself at what he read.

It went:

_Three bodies._

_What did I tell you about leaving behind evidence? _

(…And then…)

_A teenager? In a hotel? _

_And you're clearly visible on camera._

_I may have been able to delete any footage of your presence at the hotel and the police may be just as oblivious as ever but that does not give you the right to carry on like this. _

_This is senseless and it needs to stop. _

_Now. _

(…And then it was…)

_Apparently, in lieu of the authorities being unable to do their jobs, one medical examiner of St. Bartholomew's Hospital has decided to take the investigation of the boy's death into her own hands. _

_Her name is Molly Hooper. _

_I believe you know her…_

(…followed immediately by…)

_I've watched recordings of you 'visiting' her at the hospital on three separate occasions. _

_I took the liberty of deleting them, of course, which Miss Hooper seems to have discovered for herself. _

_She has also discovered that the recordings of you at the hotel have also 'mysteriously' been deleted. _

_I do not know how she made that connection between you and the boy from the hotel…_

(…and…)

…_but if you divulged any information about any of your, mine or our 'activities' to her during any of your 'conversations' there will be…consequences. _

_For her and you both. _

_And so I believe that you need to stop knowing her. _

(…and then, a few days later…)

_I told you to stay away from Sherlock Holmes AND Molly Hooper. _

_And so you see them both on the same day? _

_If you needed a distraction so badly you should have just come to me. I have ample work to set you up with. _

_Contact me if you are short. _

(…and again immediately after …)

_American. _

_Investment Banker getting class-action sued for losing all his clients' money in the stock market. _

_Wants to escape the United States with his money but not to some 'dirty spanish-speaking third-world country'. _

_I'll take care of moving the man and his money quietly to London. _

_You take care of making it look like one of his angry investors killed him for revenge and distributed the money among his fellow unlucky stockholders. _

_And yes, that means you have to travel to America. _

(…a few weeks later…)

_You returned from America and the first thing you did is knock on Miss Hooper's door. _

_I think you do this on purpose to annoy me. In fact, I know you do. _

_Leave her immediately. _

(…and then a few hours later…)

_I pay a man to accuse you at the bar of drugging Miss Hooper's drink…_

…_I use my government contacts to arrange it that a detective Miss Hooper knows just happens to be stationed, below her paygrade, policing the very park you two visited…_

_...and then I bribe the waiter to aggressively flirt with you at the restaurant…_

…_and still, Miss Hooper is unable to take a 'hint'. _

_And so are you, it seems. _

(…and finally…)

_Now you're going back to her place?_

_I don't need to remind you how it is stupid to get so 'close' to someone who is so 'close' to Sherlock Holmes and Scotland Yard. _

_I'm sending #1 over._

_So don't take too long. _

"Wow, so I _was_ right." Jim commented, still laughing lightly, "He really_ does_ have nothing better to do than watch my ever move. I think he might be trying to live through me to make up for his own boring life, don't you?"

"I think you should come with me right now. " Moran said, "My orders are to give you a ride—"

"Tempting but _no._" Jim interrupted, pocketing his phone, "I think I'll just take a nice _stroll _in the _fresh air_."

Jim turned and started to walk away the he had been going.

"Sir, my employer recommends—!" Moran called after him, but again, was cut off.

"Well _I_ 'recommend' that your 'employer' stay out of my business." Jim declared, turning back around, "And that if your 'employer' has something to say to me, he should come tell it to me _personally,_ instead of than hiding behind text messages and his _'numero uno'_."

"You know he can't do that."

"_Yes he can_. He just _won't._ He's too_ ashamed_ to be seen with me..."

* * *

><p>It had been an excruciating wait, the hours Molly spent trying to keep herself busy with paperwork (she decided that she was too shaky to make incisions on internal organs today, even if they did belong to the dead).<p>

Molly felt like one of those pitiful-looking young girls who came into the clinic she used to intern at during medical school; nervous, hopeless, fearing pregnancy or venereal disease.

But when Molly finally went back into the lab (still unlit), locked the doors, and read her results, she couldn't help but drop the vial of her own blood (used and mixed with chemicals) from her shaking hand down to the tile.

Clean, negative_, normal_…

Results that any one of those girls come to the clinic would have been _overjoyed _to receive.

But Molly was _ashamed._

There was no evidence of anything foreign in her system (other than a very low blood-alcohol level).

_There was no drug. _

No _excuses._

(Her fault. her fault. her fault.)

As Molly, on her hands and knees, viciously scrubbed the mess her blood and broken glass and chemicals had made on the floor, she felt so _dirty._

All she could think as she rubbed the paper towels, liquid soaking through and burning her hand, in angry circles was _her fault…her fault…her fault…_

* * *

><p><strong>Well...<strong>

**...It's not Mycroft, by the way...**

**BUT...as a_ glaring_ hint...**

**...it's a _'version'_ of him. **

**Curteousy my good friend Wikipedia.**

**As always, more on that later lol. **


	16. Can't Fix What Ain't Broke

**Sorry it took so long!**

**I always know I'm having a problem when I can't bring myself to write...**

**...I need to work on that...lol...**

**Hope you like it! **

* * *

><p>…And as Molly scrubbed the floors, she remembered what her father had said, <em>always said<em>, but told her for the first time when she was six years old and crying because she had broken her mother's antique hand-mirror (and probably, she had thought, her mother's _heart _along with it).

"_When you mess up, Molly, don't feel ashamed. There's no point in feeling ashamed. It's senseless. What you do when you mess up is you fix it. Simple as that. You just fix it…" _

Molly, of course, couldn't take the dangerous shards of broken glass and piece them back together… and even if she _had_ it wouldn't have been the same as before but that was true of everything, wasn't it?

'_Fix it'_ didn't mean that everything had to go back to the way it was. It just meant that things were no longer _broken._

Molly, sniffing back in her tears, was escorted by her father right up to her mother whom she sincerely apologized and gave a big hug to.

And then, afterwards, it didn't matter that the mirror was broken or that Molly had been the one to break it because all was _reconciled _and that was all that mattered.

_She was going to fix this._

* * *

><p>"Let me see it!"<p>

"Give that back! It's _mine!_"

Lestrade heard a scuffle, a scream and then a crash.

Was his job what had grayed his hair…or _this?_

How his wife dealt with this on a daily basis, Lestrade did not know.

Where his wife was at this moment in time, Lestrade _also_ did now know.

( And so, he was left to stay home from work and take care of the kids.)

He looked up from the paperwork he was trying to finishing at the dinning room table and jump out of his seat, running into the messy (toy-decorated) living room where his two children were_ supposed_ to be playing_ 'nicely'. _

This had happened so many times (each time shaving away a little more of his patience) this morning that Lestrade had lost count.

"I'm trying to get my work done in peace!" He shouted "So for once can you two just _quiet down_!"

And instantly regretted it.

He had vowed never to get too angry at or beat his children but he had just yelled at them at the top of his lungs and was a (shaven) hair (of patience) away from spanking the nine and seven year old.

And now the boy and girl were staring at him, wide-eyed and frozen on the floor where they had just been playing tug-of-war with a toy.

"…uh oh…" George, seven, whispered, "…daddy's _mad_…"

"Oh no, Georgie!" Katherine squeaked, exaggeratedly, "What if he _shoots_ us!"

_That little trouble maker! _

She _knew _her brother would believe everything that she told him.

"No, daddy, we're sorry!" George exclaimed, "We're so sorry! Don't shoot us! We'll be quiet! Don't shoot us! _Please_!"

George was trying to hold back his tears and Catherine, her giggles.

"I am _not_ going to shoot you." Lestrade declared, sighing and massaging his forehead (underneath a splitting headache was already developing), "I'd never hurt you, I love you both! Your sister was joking, Georgie…. Kay stop putting silly ideas like that in your brother's head, he doesn't know you're _joking_…"

"But he stole my doll…!" Katherine whined.

"Why can't you ever just _share_?" Lestrade groaned, "It's just a—"

Lestrade was interrupted by the doorbell ringing.

"I'll get it!"

"No _I'll _get it!"

His two children both hopped up, the doll and the fight both forgotten on the floor, and rushed over to the front door to answer.

"I'll get it." Lestrade countered, "Both of you, sit down."

Lestrade passed his children, who did not sit down but followed behind him as he went over to the door and pulled it partially open.

Katherine and George peered around their father's legs to see just who had come to the door.

It was a lady in a white labcoat so probably not somebody from the police.

"…_Molly?._...How can I help you...?"

From the look on her face (more nervous than usual) and the fact that she had taken the trouble to find out his address and then go all the way to his suburban townhouse Lestrade _knew_ that whatever Molly wanted to talk to him about was _important._

"Um…well…"

Molly was about to explain but then saw Lestrade's two young children looking past their father up at her.

"Come in." Lestrade told her and then turned to George and Katherine, "I have important work stuff to take care of now. Go to your rooms and play…quietly this time."

"…_fine_…" Katherine complained, rolling her eyes which she had only recently learned to do (teenager already. _Great_…).

She and George stomped slowly up the stairs and when Lestrade heard their bedroom doors closed, he allowed Molly inside.

* * *

><p>It was then, standing at the window of the house for sale across the street and holding binoculars up to his eyes, that Sebastian Moran was glad he had bothered to bug the Lestrade residence.<p>

Sure, his employer already had all of Scotland Yard on twenty-four hour surveillance (in fact, they had had the cameras installed themselves) but Moran had suggested that they might as well put Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade's home under surveillance as well- since they already did have Molly Hooper's residence bugged too.

And Molly Hooper was the reason Moran was here.

He had been instructed by his employer to follow her and so far Moran had watched her…

-clean her house in the dark

-do some kind of a blood-test on herself

-clean the hospital floor in the dark

-go to Scotland Yard and get told by Detective Inspector Dimmock that Lestrade was not there

-make some kind of excuse to explain why she needed Lestrade's address to a woman at a desk

-and take a taxi all the way to the address she had finally been given.

Now Moran was watching from the empty townhouse across the street from Lestrade's into Lestrade's window where Lestrade and Molly sat at the dinning room table discussing something with serious faces and hushed voices.

With his binoculars, Moran could see the family portrait hanging on the wall under which he had put the listening-device that was now providing him with the dialogue to the conversation he was witnessing.

"_I know Moriarty was the one who killed those three men and that teenage boy." _

Molly's voice.

"_How do you know this? How can you be sure?" _

Lestrade's voice.

_"I did the examinations I—" _

"_You said you found no evidence linking anyone to those murders." _

"_I know. I didn't. I just—" _

"_Then how can you possibly know it was Moriarty?" _

"_I just know, alright!" _

Molly had _shouted. _

That meant she was beyond frustrated and it took something particularly _important _to pull her out of her timid persona.

"_I feel like you're not telling me the whole story, Molly. How do you know—" _

"_I told you I just do. I don't have proof but I just do. I know it was him." _

"_But—" _

"_You don't believe me. Nobody ever believes me…they think I don't know what I'm talking—" _

"_No, no it's not that! It's not that I don't believe you. It's just that without evidence, or an eyewitness…or a confession…my hands are tied. There's nothing I can do. And even if you did have any of those things, why would it matter? We've already got Moriarty for the bombings and for the attempted murder of Sherlock and John…it's just that we haven't got him. We've been looking for him for almost a year now. We just can't find him." _

"_I can."_

"…_What?" _

"_I can find him…or, well, I could get him meet me somewhere and you could...you know, like, arrest him…or something…" _

"_You can get him to meet you? Why would you think that you could do that?" _

"…_no one ever thinks I can do anything…" _

"_That's not what I meant, I just meant…I meant how can you, um, contact him?" _

"_I have his number. He's been…texting me." _

"_What? Why didn't you say something! You could be in danger! You are in danger-if it's really Moriarty texting you! He could be planning to hurt you—"_

"_He's not. He's just bored." _

"_You need police protection—" _

"_No. That would tip him off."_

_"It would save your life."_

"_It 'scared' him off before…when he was pulling those 'pranks' on me. You can't keep doing that or you'll never catch him…" _

"_It's not worth your life, Molly! Is that why you haven't told anyone about the texts yet? So police could catch him? It's not worth catching him if you get killed in the process. You're just a civilian, for god's sake, not a police officer! You're innocent in all of this. It's not worth catching Moriarty if any more innocent lives are lost…" _

"_More innocent lives will be lost if you don't capture Jim Moriarty. Many more lives than mine…more innocent than mine. It's not worth saving my life if they all get killed. It's not." _

"…_.well…I still can't just put a civilian in danger like th—"_

"_It's okay. It's okay, I'm not in danger and even if I was it wouldn't matter anyway..." _

"_Maybe we should ask Sherlock about—" _

"_No!...um… that wouldn't work. Moriarty can't—I mean if Sherlock got involved then Moriarty wouldn't go. He wouldn't meet me anywhere if he thought Sherlock would know about it." _

"_And you really think you can get Moriarty to meet you somewhere…?" _

"_Yes…probably." _

"_...But what if he…what if he knows it's a trap? It's just too risky. He'll know it's a trap." _

"_That doesn't mean he won't come."_

* * *

><p>The plan was simple.<p>

The plan was simple because the simpler it was, the less likely Moriarty would figure it out.

The plan was meet Moriarty, text Lestrade, Lestrade arrives and arrests Moriarty.

Simple.

Taking deep breaths, Molly went over it step by step again and again in her head as she walked towards the coffee shop where she and 'Jim from IT' used to go on 'dates' at.

Of course, it was simple. Of course, she had it memorized.

Going over it step by step again and again was really just to distract her mind from _wandering._

Molly didn't want to remember _what_ _had happened_ two nights ago.

It didn't matter because she was going to _fix it._

Molly didn't want to wonder if the people she passed on the street were paying more attention to her than usual and if they _knew. _

It didn't matter because she was going to _fix it._

Still winter, windy and cold, Molly pulled her coat tighter around herself.

She saw the coffee shop just down the block ahead of her.

Although it was only a few minutes away from the hospital, Molly hadn't been there in almost a year, since 'Jim from IT' had taken her.

She wondered if the employees would remember her? She wondered if they would look at her and _know…_

No.

_Don't wander, mind. _

The plan was simple.

Meet Moriarty, text Lestrade, Lestrade comes and catches Moriarty.

_Simple. _

Molly's pocket vibrated and she reached in, pulling out her phone.

There was a text.

From Moriarty?

No.

From Lestrade.

_Your meeting with him is set for 1:30. _

_If you don't text me within 30 minutes, I'm coming in._

Molly sent 'ok' as her response to Lestrade's text and put her phone away.

She pushed the door to the coffee shop open and entered, the warm air and aroma greeting her.

_Not Moriarty. _

Molly snagged _'their'_ table by placing her coat against the back of one of the wooden chairs and then went up to the counter to stand in line.

It was the same barista running the shop and of course it was because Molly had come at the same time she had always come with 'Jim from IT' (her lunch break).

Would the girl recognize her? Would the girl _know_…?

No. That didn't matter. That didn't matter.

Besides, how could the barista or anyone know anyway?

…_unless Moriarty was going around telling people. _

Men _were_ known brag about their 'conquests' and for all Molly knew Moriarty came to this coffee shop everyday, chatted with fellow customers and the employees and had _casually mentioned_ how he had 'gotten lucky' Valentine's Day with that girl from the hospital he used to bring in here before.

No. That's _silly. _

And that didn't matter. It didn't matter. _Didn't matter…_

Molly was going to fix this.

She ordered, (the barista took her order and didn't seem to recognize her), she got her coffee, (the barista handed it to her and didn't seem to recognize her), and she took her seat (table by the window, the window recognized her showing her the nervous reflection she had been avoiding the past two days).

And Molly waited.

The wait for Moriarty was just as agonizing as the wait for the results of her blood-test.

Molly never before wished that Moriarty was here with her.

(…_no._ that's not _true_.)

Would he even show up?

Molly's fingers had been shaking yesterday as she had texted him:

_Need to taalk about last nigjt._

_Coffee?_

_-Molly_

But he had responded:

_The usual place. 130. _

_-Jim_

So why wasn't he here?

Did he_ know_…?

How could he? He did. He just _did._

_But did that mean he wouldn't come? _

Molly took a short sip of coffee out of the styrofoam cup (she didn't want to drink it all before he got here but she didn't want it to get cold).

Molly watched the window, looking past her reflection at the crowds passing outside for a glimpse of Moriarty, and the other tables in the coffee shop, wondering if the other patrons _knew…_

There was an analog clock on the wall, behind the counter and Molly kept an eye on that and on her phone but no matter how many minutes passed by Moriarty did not arrive.

It was 1:50pm when Molly decided that he wasn't going to.

She wasn't sure if she was _disappointed_ or _relieved_.

This meant she wouldn't have to see him again (which would have been scary and _awkward_…) but it also meant that he wouldn't be arrested and continue to go around doing whatever it was he did (crimes, for profit, for _fun_…) and _that_ meant that Molly hadn't _fixed_ this and that this was _her fault_.

The barista was definitely looking at her now. Did she _know_? Molly couldn't tell but what Molly could tell was that the barista _recognized_ that Molly was waiting for someone who wasn't going to come.

_(Always embarrassing.)_

But less so for Molly since she was used to it. This wasn't the first time she had been _stood up._

Moriarty had obviously gotten what he_ wanted_ from her and then went on with his life. Men_ were _known to 'hit and run' and for all Molly knew Moriarty was just like those men in that regard.

Molly had just been a _game_ Moriarty had just been _playing_ and now that he had _won_ there was _no point_ in continuing it.

Molly decided that once again, she had been _stupid_ enough to believe that she could actually d_o something_ to help, that she could _fix _her _mistake_…

(_stupid_ enough to believe that Moriarty had actually been _interested_ in her. that he would actually _want _to see her again)

…or maybe Moriarty had known it was a _trap_ (of course, he did). And maybe, for _once,_ Moriarty hadn't been bored (stupid) enough to '_tempt fate_' and walk right into_ danger_ for the _fun_ of it.

Maybe _that_ was why he had _stood her up._

(_Maybe he still_…No. Mind, please don't wander.)

It was 1:58pm when Molly saw the glint and turned to the window.

Lestrade was on the sidewalk outside, gun and badge drawn, preparing to burst into the coffee shop and arrest consulting criminal Jim Moriarty who had obviously been preventing Molly from texting.

Molly tapped lightly on the glass, patting her reflection like she was slapping her own face, and Lestrade saw her, through the window, sitting at the table alone.

He entered the shop and sat down across from her in 'Jim from IT's'_ (Jim's)_ seat.

"What happened?"

_Well it was obvious, wasn't it? Moriarty didn't show up. Why was he asking? _

"He didn't come…" Molly mumbled into her mug, "…_I'm sorry_…"

"It's alright." Lestrade replied, nodded and glancing around the coffee shop as if he didn't believe Molly…

…_no._ Not that he didn't _believe _her. Not that he thought she was lying about Moriarty not being there…

…no, it was more like he thought she was _mistaken_. Like Moriarty was actually in the room right then and Molly had just been too _stupid_ to notice.

"He probably knew it was a trap." Molly added.

"Yeah." Lestrade agreed, once he was satisfied that Moriarty truly wasn't there, "He must have."

_He didn't believe that either. _

(Well, he believed that Molly believed it but he didn't believe that Moriarty had not come because he knew it was a trap he believed that Moriarty had not come because he had had 'better things' to do and didn't have time to mess around with somebody (some nobody) Molly Hooper…

…However, it made Lestrade feel better to believe that it made Molly feel better to believe that Moriarty simply not come because he didn't want to be arrested.)

"I should have known this was a bad idea..." Molly said and swallowed her cold coffee in one gulp.

"No." Lestrade stated, shaking his head, "_I_ should have known this was a bad idea. I should have never let you do this. And now Moriarty probably knows you tried to set him up. I'm going to put police protection—"

"_Don't!"_ Molly exclaimed, jumping up and then quieting herself and sitting back down, "I mean…um, I don't think that's _necessary._ I don't want to be a _bother_. Besides, I think J—_Moriarty_ is _done_ with me. I don't think he'll try to do anything to me anymore… I don't think I'll ever _see_ him again…"

"…And you're sure that it was even him that was texting you?" Lestrade asked as though a _possibility_ had just occurred to him and when it _did_ it had seemed_ very likely, _"You sure it wasn't…you know, somebody else…?"

"Of course I am!" Molly declared.

_Did Lestrade really think she was that stupid?_

"….may I see the texts, please?"

Molly couldn't show him.

Lestrade was a detective, after all, if he saw the texts he would _know._

"_I deleted them_."

"…alright, then…okay…."

_Oh, and now he thought she was crazy! _

Molly took a deep breath and calmed herself. Even if he thought she was _stupid_, even if he thought she was _crazy…_

…at least Lestrade didn't _know._

"I'm sorry." Molly apologized, again, "I know it was him. I _know_ but it's over now. I'm sorry I wasted your time, I'm sorry I couldn't be of more _help_…"

"No, Molly, it's fine, it's fine," Lestrade consoled, "You _did _help—"

"_No I didn't_." Molly countered, "I made it _worse._"

She was _talking _about trying and failing to set up Jim Moriarty.

She was _thinking_ about sleeping with him.

"You shouldn't be so hard on yourself…" Lestrade told her, "I can see why you'd want to help catch Moriarty…but just because we didn't this time doesn't mean you should feel bad. I mean, all of Scotland Yard tried to catch him and _failed._ …_Sherlock Holmes_ tried to catch him and _failed_…you can't blame yourself. _It's not your fault_…"

What was _this?_

…_pity? _

Didn't matter. Lestrade was _right. _

And Molly was _wrong_.

How could she have been _so stupid_ to think that _she _could accomplish what _Scotland Yard_ and _Sherlock Holmes_ could not?

Molly looked away from Lestrade at the window. Now there was a black truck (parked illegally) almost up on the curb right outside the coffee shop, making her reflection even more visible.

Molly quickly looked away, back down at her empty coffee cup. _Even her own reflection had been ashamed of her…_

"I think I'm going to have to give that truck a ticket." Lestrade laughed, _forcedly_, a joke in attempt to lighten the mood and break the _awkward_ silence threatening to develop.

Molly glanced up at him, and then at the truck outside and so herself.

She forced herself to smile.

* * *

><p><em>Should I take the shot, sir?<em>

_-1_

**####**

_Yes._

_-0 _

Sebastian Moran replaced his phone back into his pants pocket and repositioned himself in front of the sniper rifle, a finger on the trigger and an eye up to the scope.

Across the street and down several stories, Molly Hooper sat in a little coffee shop, at the table by the window.

Suddenly she looked up.

Had she seen the glint?

_No._ It was just Detective Inspector Lestrade, badge and gun out, blocking_ Moran's shot._

Soon enough, however, Lestrade moved out of the way and went into the shop, sitting down across from Molly.

_Great. _

A _police officer_ would be witness to the sniper murder of Molly Hooper.

_That would prove complicated to clean up…_

Moran returned to his phone.

_Lestrade is there._

_Continue or wait until later?_

_-1 _

**####**

_Do what you must. _

_-0_

**####**

_Yes, sir. _

_-1_

Once again, Moran put away his phone and returned to his gun.

But this time, in his scope there was a large black truck parked in front of where the clear view of Molly and Lestrade sitting in the coffee shop should have been.

A figure emerged from the vehicle, street side, slamming the door behind him and walking through quickly-moving, heavy traffic towards the building Moran was stationed in.

Jim Moriarty.

Moran stood up from his sniper rifle, turned around to face the door and wait for Jim.

After a few minutes, Jim arrived on the empty 16th floor (undergoing renovation) and entered the room occupied only by Moran, his equipment and a few stray boards.

"What did I tell you about _crashing my dates_…?" he began, more malice in his joking tone than usual.

_This wouldn't go very smoothly. _

And _that _was saying something, considering that, with Jim Moriarty, things never just went _'smoothly'. _

"_You _didn't even go, sir." Moran stated, "You _knew _she was trying to set you up. You _knew_ she brought that detective with her."

"I _would_ have gone, regardless of whether she brought along a _'friend' _or not…" Jim countered, "…except _you_ decided to show up and _spoil the fun_. Might I ask _why?_... Is it because you're _jealous?_"

"It's because you would have been arrested, sir." Moran said evenly, although knowing that Jim already knew this, "As you know, sir, my employer doesn't—"

"_I TOLD YOU AND YOUR EMPLOYER TO STAY OUT OF THIS!" _Jim shouted louder than Moran had heard anyone shout before (except in Afghanistan when shouting out orders or in pain over bullets and bombs).

Moran realized he had underestimated Jim's level of _annoyance_ at this situation.

Hopefully what his employer had told him to do if Jim _'got a little testy' _would work…

"Sir, you're anger is _misplaced_." He replied, making sure to show no surprise, or fear, or frustration, "What you _really_ are angry at is Miss Hooper for her betrayal, _not_ at me or my employer for protecting you from it."

…it didn't.

In fact, it only made it _worse._

"Oh so you're some kind of _shrink_, now too, _aren't you_?" Jim snorted, "You're _employer_ teach you that? Bet he did. He is _such_ a _good teacher_…"

"Sir—"

"Knows, everything, he does…knows what's best for everyone…especially _me_. And me, I don't know anything. I'm just a stupid punk kid who—"

This was _bad._

This was _very_ _bad. _

Moran's employer had recounted the last time Jim had had an 'outburst' like this…

…_it was_ _back when he was fourteen and he really wanted to come out and play with a boy named Sherlock Holmes who was the only one to notice the significance of a dead kid's missing shoes._

Things had certainly not gone _'smoothly'_ then.

So what was Moran going to do to calm Jim down so that the same _incident _wouldn't happen again…?

Moran felt his phone buzz.

For the third time, he retrieved it.

_He's faking it. _

_It's almost word for word what he said the last time. _

_He knows I'm watching. _

_-0 _

Sighing inwardly, but making no expression as usual, Moran looked up from the text message over to Jim.

Jim was glaring past him, over at a white security camera stuck to the top corner of the concrete room.

Jim saw Moran looking at him and grinned (again, more malice than usual).

"He's just looking out for you, you know..." Moran sighed, "Really, sir, he is."

"_I'm a big boy now_. I can take care of myself…" Jim declared, still grinning sinisterly, "So the two of you've got one more _warning_…and I mean _'warning'_ because if either you get into my business again, with Molly Hooper _or_ Sherlock Holmes, there _will_ be a '_war'_…"

Moran stared at Jim.

_Not gone smoothly, not gone smoothly at all…_

But before Moran could respond, he watched Jim dissolve into snickering, bending forewords, clutching his stomach and closing his eyes.

(Maniacal) laughter echoed off the walls of the empty floor.

"Get it?" Jim chuckled, looking up at Moran from his bent position and wiping a tear from his eyes, "…_ 'warning' _'war'-'ning'… _'war'_? Get it?"

Moran stopped himself from raising an eyebrow.

Was Jim just_ joking?_

"Sir—"

"_GET IT?" _

He _wasn't._

Suddenly, Jim was upright again and directing his glare at Moran.

"I said _'get it'_!" He repeated for the third time.

And he wasn't talking about his play on words; he was talking about his threat of _war._

"Yes, sir." Moran nodded, "I get it. And I'll pass it on to my employer."

"Good." Jim breathed, and then he was laughing again, as he was walking away, "I am just _too _funny, aren't I…"

* * *

><p>When Molly got home that evening, disappointed and relieved, Toby was waiting for her, curled up at the door.<p>

He purred as she bent down and pet him, rubbing up against her arms and legs.

But when she went to scratch under the cat's chin, she found something attached to his collar…

…a _note._

Molly closed the door behind her by leaning back against as she unfolded the tiny white paper.

_Molly, _

_Sorry I missed you today. _

_I didn't mean to stand you up but there were too many guests, uninvited or otherwise. _

_I could kill you for that, you know, or could have let you get killed…_

…_but instead I'm giving you a choice. _

_I'm never going to contact you again. _

_No more showing up at your work or at your flat and 'forcing' you out on dates with me. I won't bother you anymore. _

_And you can forget any of this ever happened if you never want to see me again…_

…_But if you do want to see me again… YOU have to contact ME. (And you can, whenever you want, you can.) _

_I'll never stand you up again if you do. Ask for me and I'll be there…_

…_on one condition. _

_You see me for you and me. _

_Not for what Sherlock Holmes or Lestrade or anybody thinks of you...not for your conscience to absolve yourself of some imaginary 'sin' or restore the delicate balance between good and evil and right and wrong in this world or any bullshit like that…_

…_no._

_You see me for you, because you want to and it makes you happy…_

… _and for me, because I'm amazing and you just can't stay away. _

_You see, Molly, if you want to see me again you have to come to me and you have to take responsibility for it._

_No more excuses._

_-Jim _

Molly read the letter over a few times and then re-folded it, placing it into her labcoat pocket.

She walked into her apartment, Toby trotting after her.

On the counter of her kitchenette was the vase of flowers. _Somebody had watered them. _

Molly reached past them and flipped on the lights.

* * *

><p><strong>Hope it wasn't filler-ish again...<strong>

**And next chapter the 'Game' begins, lol! **


	17. The Reflection

**Hey there!**

**Sorry it took so long!**

**But for that, you get a long chapter! **

**I was visiting my (hopefully) future college again and I can proudly say that I ate lunch sitting next to Jim Moriarty (well a picture of him anyway...) lol! **

**(And its a shame that that was the hilight of my visit, not the actual real famous author visiting who I also sat next to at dinner...lololol priorities, priorities...) **

**So...**

**This chapter starts and ends a little wierd. **

**(But of course everything I write is a little wierd, and to me at least, weird is good.)**

**I'm just warning you that Jim is going to channel some Gollum in this one and Molly is going to speak to the dead. **

** Don't be afraid! **

* * *

><p>Jim Moriarty stared at Jim Moriarty.<p>

They both _grinned _intensely until they finally got it right and could _smile_ in satisfaction at each other.

Then they practiced _'angry' _and _'menacing'_ and _'disgusted'_ and _'annoyed'_ and even _'surprised'_, too, just for the _fun _of it.

And Then their faces returned to _normal. _

_No,_ not _'normal'_.

_Worse_ than _'normal'._

_Neutral. _

_Ugly_ _neutral._

_(Nothing.)_

Jim Moriarty looked away from Jim Moriarty.

_He wanted to see Sherlock. Where was Sherlock? _

Unavailable.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were _somewhere_ (not in London) doing _something_ (probably a case…(or maybe something _else_?)) that John was _not _updating his blog about ('something else' now seeming more likely).

And Jim was still in London, doing _nothing. _

(Well not exactly 'nothing'. He_ was_ doing his job. But that was now getting tedious…'consulting criminal' had been a cute idea at first, what with Sherlock being a 'consulting detective' and all…but now it was a bit_ boring_…(especially without Sherlock around).)

But the one_ plus_ about Sherlock and John being out of the city… (_country_, maybe even—Jim could check but then again what was the _point?_ Sherlock would come back to London anyway. He _always _came back.) … was that Jim got to _house-sit._

(Technically that was Mrs. Hudson's job but Jim was just the kind of Good Samaritan that would help a poor old lady out.)

The bathroom in 221b Baker Street was _cramped_. And yes, it was _adorable_ that two grown men shared this small a bathroom (and apparently a tube of toothpaste).

Jim could easily tell which toiletry items belonged to Sherlock (the high quality expensive ones, gifts from ever-doting big brother Mycroft, no doubt), which ones were John's (store-brand to save money, out of habit, even though he could now afford better) and which ones John had bought implying that they were for his use only (but secretly hoping Sherlock would use as well—which he _did_).

The shower curtain was pulled closed neatly (probably by Mrs. Hudson who had taken the chance to tidy up (despite herself) just as soon as she was sure her tenants were gone).

Jim considered opening it and reaching down into the drain to pull out any stray hairs of Sherlock's dark wavy brown to _collect_…but then decided that John probably cleaned (_collected_) those himself.

Jim screeched open the curtain and glanced down at the drain.

_He was right. _

So (if not Sherlock's hair) what was Jim going to _take _from Sherlock's flat?

At first he thought the skull, maybe or one of the experiments or body parts from the fridge…but all of those were too _obvious._

If Jim_ really_ wanted to_ take_ something…

(…not just _'take something' _like holding a child's toy high over the child's head so that the child has to jump up, arms stretched skywards, to take it back...but really _take_ something from Sherlock, _something to have all to himself_, something to _keep…)_

…it would have to be something that Sherlock wouldn't notice was even _gone._

Something Sherlock wouldn't have noticed was even_ there_ in the first place.

…Something like…

_Molly Hooper. _

Jim turned back to the mirror, looking himself deep in the eyes… (maybe because he wanted to see _something_ in them …or maybe because he wanted _someone_ to see _something_ in _him_)… and putting on his perfect, _practiced_ sneer.

"Sherlock Holmes." He said.

And made a face that he thought Sherlock would make; _raised eyebrow, rolled eyes _(haughty, know-it-all indifference).

"Jim Moriarty." The reflection said.

"_We meet again_…"

(Sinister grin.)

"_Cliché. Boring!" _

(Rolled eyes. _Again_.)

"Oh _no_, Sherlock. With _you_…with you and _me_… it's _never_ boring."

"Perhaps you're just easily amused."

"Only by _you_."

"I'm _flattered_."

"You_ should_ be."

"What do you want?"

"_You_, of course."

"You almost_ had_ me, you know…and then you _left_. You walked out of the indoor pool room, chatting with _someone else_ on your smartphone and _never contacted me again." _

"Yes, yes I _did_…I know, I know. _I'm sorry_. Complications-"

"_Excuses_."

"…_if only you knew_…"

"I _do_."

"You _know everything_, don't you? You're the only one _in this world_ who knows what it's like to be _me_…we've got so much in common, Sherlock, _so much_…"

"_I know_…kiss me?"

"_Okay."_

Jim leaned forward, eyes closed and lips puckered.

He tasted the smooth, _tasteless_ glass of the mirror.

He tasted _nothing. _

Jim opened his eyes and saw his own face.

It was one of the rare times he was _disappointed_ to see it. It was one of the rare times he found it _ugly._

Expressionless, neutral.

Jim opened his eyes and saw _nothing._

(One can't kiss oneself, no matter how one tries…and what's the _point _of a kiss, anyway, if you can't _bite_ the other person's tongue and _taste_ their _blood_?)

Jim resumed _normal_ pose in front of the mirror.

He made his 'Sherlock' face again but then decided he was very good at Sherlock impressions… and even if he _was,_ there was _nothing_ as _good_ as the _real Sherlock_ and so _nothing_ was _good enough._

Jim wondered what it would be like to be Sherlock.

He always thought he kind of _knew…_

…but there was no way for him to _know_ that he _knew _for sure unless he actually was able to_ become_ Sherlock Holmes.

And even if Jim was to skin Sherlock's face from his skull and sew it onto his own and stare into the mirror and make Sherlock faces, Jim still wouldn't be able to become Sherlock Holmes.

For that, one would need his brain.

And Jim couldn't _take_ that.

So what_ would _he _take_ from Sherlock…?

…_Molly Hooper? _

(Something Sherlock wouldn't notice was gone, never even notice was there.)

"Sherlock? You still here?" Jim asked.

"…_Regrettably._ I really do have much _better_ things that I could be doing right now…" Jim's reflection answered, voice deliberately deeper and accent deliberately more pretentious.

Maybe this wasn't Sherlock, after all.

…more like a _caricature_…

"What could be better than us just talking, _Sherly_?"

('Sherly' was the name of caricature.)

"I can think of seventeen different—"

"I can think of _one._ But it's not _possible_…at the moment. _So_…we'll have to find something_ else_ to do. Come, now, _dear Sherly_, I know what'll _cheer you up_. Let's play a _game_."

"A game?_ Interesting_…and just _what_ is this 'game' you propose we play?"

"It's more of a bet, actually. A _wager_."

"What? Like a game of 'chance'. I _despise_ 'games of chance', games that require no thinking, no _skill_…_besides_, you tell me what we're 'betting' on and I can tell you the exact odds and that would be _no fun_ at all, _would it_?"

(_Oooh._ 'Sherlock' (impression) was _back_…now if only the _real _one would return…)

"You don't_ believe_ in _luck,_ do you?"

"No."

"Didn't think so…but _'lucky'_ for you, it isn't that kind of game."

"What kind is it?"

"I told you. It's a wager."

"And what do you _'wager'_?"

"I _'wager'_… that I can _steal something_ from you, _Sherlock Holmes_. That I can _take_ it, right out from under your long nose and you won't even notice that it's _gone_."

"No."

"_Yes._ I _can_. And I _will…_ And you'll never even figure out what I've _taken_."

"_No_…"

Sherlock (impression) was furrowing his brow now.

_Confusion…? Fear…?_

_No._ Sherlock would never show those so openly, so _expressively_…

… and so '_Sherly'_ the caricature must have come back again.

"_Yes._" Jim grinned triumphantly, exaggeratedly at his own reflection.

Jim the caricature was _always_ there.

* * *

><p><em>Where was Sherlock? <em>

Unavailable.

And so, just how was Scotland Yard fairing?

"You think I can't do my job, then? You think we all can't do our jobs!"

"No, I'm just saying it would be easier if Sherlock was here—"

"That_ freak_—"

"That _'freak' _is the reason we've got the best closure rate in the Yard… so I suggest you treat him with a bit more_ respect_… and_ me_ as well, Sergeant Donovan."

"…Yes, _sir_…"

Anderson and Dimmock watched Sally and Lestrade argue.

The four police officers stood on the graying pavement. White line were painted in rows for parking spaces and chalked in the outlines of two bodies (already removed).

There were oil stains from cars and blood stains from humans, glistening in the light shinning through the clouds above.

"Is it always like this?" Dimmock asked, surprised, "That Donovan's sure got a temper…and guts too, talking to her boss like that."

"She's only gets like that when it comes to Sherlock Holmes…" Anderson explained, rolling his eyes.

"I understand why." Dimmock sympathized, "But _still_…"

"Well if Lestrade'll put up with Sherlock's out-right rudeness, then he better put up with Sally's legitimate complaints!" Anderson declared.

"I suppose that's fair…" Dimmock nodded.

They could see their breath in the cold and turned away from each other to look back at Lestrade and Sally.

"It was supposed to be a fist fight…"Lestrade commented, staring down at the chalk outlines, "…but somehow it turned into a knife fight and both of them ended up dead."

"Wonder what they were fighting about…" Sally shrugged.

"I bet _Sherlock_ would probably know just from looking…" Lestrade muttered.

"_That's it!"_ Sally exclaimed, throwing her hands up, "I'm putting in for a transfer!"

"Transferring, that's serious." Dimmock commented to Anderson, "She must really hate that Holmes bloke."

"Ah, she's not _really _going to transfer." Anderson dismissed, "She threatens it all the time but she never does."

"Why not?"

"Doesn't want to leave me, of course."

"Aren't you _married_…?" Dimmock inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"I was joking!" Anderson declared, panickedly, "It was a joke!"

"Yeah, I thought so until you started saying it was like that…"

Dimmock chuckled and Anderson growled, both under their breaths, as not to disturb (to better hear) Sally and Lestrade's investigation (argument).

"You're not transferring…" Lestrade told Sally, "We work too well together."

"We _used _to." Sally qualified, "We had the best case closure rate _even before_ that _freak_ came along and n_ow _he's just getting in the way."

"Even if you don't like him you can't_ honestly_ think that." Lestrade countered, "You_ know_ he's helping."

"He _is_…" Sally admitted, "But we can do it without him, even though you seem to have_ forgotten_ that, we _can_ do our_ jobs_ without Sherlock Holmes…"

Dimmock turned to Anderson, nudging him with an elbow.

"They _'work well together'_, huh?" he quoted Lestrade, "Seems 'Sally' is pretty close with the boss. You _jealous_?"

"No!" Anderson declared, a little too loudly, causing Sally and Lestrade to look over in his and Dimmock's direction.

"What are you two doing over there?" Lestrade called, "We've gotta case! Come on, let's get to work!"

"_Oh_ _that's_ _right_!" Sally agreed, sarcastically, "it takes _Sherlock_ ten minutes to solve a case like this and it takes _four of us_ to do the same thing in, what, _ten days?_ _weeks? Months? Years_…?"

Anderson and Dimmock started towards the two other officers and the two white outlines.

"I'm not jealous of Lestrade…" Anderson told Dimmock, as they walked, "_Sally's _jealous of_ Sherlock." _

So…Scotland Yard was fairing…_fairly enough_, Jim decided as he watched the street from a window above, _without Sherlock._

Lestrade _did _have Sally and Anderson and (sometimes) Dimmock as well as many other interchangeable low-ranking policemen and that_ had to count for something…_

…half a Sherlock, _maybe_…?

…or a _John_…?

_Yes_. A _John._

_One whole John._

* * *

><p>Jim's phone was in his pants pocket, bouncing slightly as he strolled down the stairs.<p>

It vibrated.

_Molly? _

(She _was _going to call. it was just a matter of _when._)

_No._

It was just at text from one of Jim's _boring_, regular contacts (a radical anarchist who was probably schizophrenic and would never have accomplished anything had it not been for Jim's help).

_They're following me. They're going to take me soon. _

_Help._

_-Lewis_

(Not '-Molly'. But she was going to call. It was just a matter of when.)

Jim snorted and rolled his eyes.

Lewis was probably just imagining things again, the man was completely paranoid…

(although rightfully so as he had gone on seven shooting sprees at government buildings, killing a total of seventeen people and getting away clean (thanks to Jim))

…but Jim had been the only one to ever _'believe'_ the strange, insane things Lewis said, and once in awhile he was_ right_, which had proved both entertaining _and_ beneficial to Jim in the past.

Still, Jim replied:

_It's all in your head :)_

Just because ticking Lewis off was fun even through text message.

_No I'm not! I'm not crazy! _

_They're really following me! The government is after me and they're closing in! _

_Please help!_

_-Lewis_

Jim laughed and typed into his phone.

_You sure?_

_-Jim_

**####**

_Yes I am sure! _

_Night chasers right behind me. _

…'night chasers'…

Jim perked up at that mention.

A 'night chaser' was Lewis's word for an expensive, sleek black vehicle-_just like the ones Mycroft Holmes (the British government) used._

_What is your location? _

_-Jim_

The skies above were gray, as were the rows and rows of concrete rectangular structures on the concrete ground.

Jim navigated the maze of storage units, the only colors were their metal doors alternating between red, blue, green and yellow. Each door had a number.

Jim wondered what was inside number 221 as he passed by the green door, but before he could further ponder (or just break in and see for himself) he saw a flash of black shoot across the narrow street (not meant for cars) in front of him in a blur.

…a _'night chaser'_?

As soon as Jim had seen it, it was gone and so Jim started running right after it.

He knew it would lead him to Lewis and that Lewis had been _right._

Using the concrete structures as cover, Jim watched from around the corner as several black towncars surrounding a storage unit with a yellow door.

Men in matching black suits jumped from the limousines and aimed handguns towards the yellow door number ninety-five.

Then, a woman appeared from inside the middle vehicle.

She was also in a matching black skirtsuit but instead of holding a gun, she was texting on a smartphone.

Finally looking up from it, she addressed the men.

"This is the target's storage unit."

Jim pulled out his own phone and texted Lewis.

_They know you're in there…_

_-Jim_

**####**

_They don't know anything but I was RIGHT. _

_I'm not crazy. _

_-Lewis_

**####**

_I can get you out of there, if you'd like._

_-Jim _

**####**

_Goodbye. _

_-Lewis_

Jim read the final text and then replaced his phone. He swerved his head around the side of the building for the best possible view.

_This was going to be good…_

"Open the door!" commanded Anthea (of course that wasn't _really_ her name, but Jim preferred it to her boring normal name).

One of the suited men rushed over to the yellow door, produced bolt cutters and proceeded to try to cut open the padlock and chain.

That went on for a few minutes until two other men joined him and they all attempted to use their combined strength.

Anthea groan and rolled her eyes, then retuning to texting.

As all seven men were trying to use the bolt cutters and get the yellow door open, Anthea's face suddenly jerked up from staring down at her phone.

"Get down!" she screamed.

She and the men (who had no idea why they were doing so other than following orders) dove behind the black cars.

"Ma'am?" one of them asked her, looking at her from behind the vehicle next to hers.

"It's padlocked from the outside…" she explained in a whisper, "There's no way he's in there…so it could be a bomb in there, but I don't think so because he's never been known to use explosive before…or he could be somewhere else…"

She glanced away from the man she was speaking to over to the storage unit across from number ninety-five.

A red door.

Jim grinned. _Yes_ this _was _going to be good…

Jim watched as Anthea and the men watched the red door slowly rise open.

A figure decorated in weapons emerged, still shadowed.

Lewis looked like an action hero from the movies; automatic assault rifles in both hands, guns and knives on his belt, and rows of bullets as suspenders.

Jim had to bite his tongue to keep from cracking up and getting spotted as Lewis stomped out from the storage unit.

"The million eyes of the Cyclops will watch me no more!" Lewis shouted, shaking his weapons to the sky, "I will finally be free from the government!"

He pointed both rifles at Anthea and the seven men.

"You need to take your medicine!" Anthea told him, slowly reaching into her jacket pocket, "I've got it here-"

"No!" Lewis yelled, "No more poison! Don't move!"

Anthea's arm froze, hand still in her pocket.

"What do you want then…?" she asked cautiously.

"I want to be alone!" Lewis cried, now almost sobbing, "I wanted to be left alone! But the eyes! The eyes were always, always watching me! I could never sleep…You all want _me_! You all came here after _me_! Leave me alone, leave me alone!"

"We can't do that, Lewis, you know we can't." Anthea said, "You've killed people-"

"I've poked out the Cyclops' eyes!" Lewis corrected.

(It was all too funny, really, Jim was still trying to keep from laughing. Wasn't the _whole point_ of a Cyclops that it only had _one_ eye?)

"Put the guns down…" Anthea told Lewis, and then added, "Please."

She started to stand.

"Don't move!" Lewis repeated, louder this time, and he now directed all of his weapons solely on Anthea, "Nobody move…!"

Nobody moved.

"Line up!" Lewis continued, and when nobody moved, he said, "Line up! Now! Do it now!"

Reluctantly, Anthea and the men rose and followed the gestures of Lewis's rifles to stand up against and facing the yellow door.

They and Jim knew what was coming next.

"You don't have to do this!" Anthea wailed.

"Shut up!" Lewis roared, "…I want you all to know that you all deserve this! If you hadn't come chasing after me…if you had just left me alone…none of this would have to happen…!"

Even with their backs turned, Anthea and the suited men heard the safety click off.

Jim gazed at the scene.

What did Lewis even need his help for? _He seemed to have this all under control…_

(He may have been_ crazy_, but he was still pretty smart. _Genius_, maybe even (although not on the level of Sherlock)…_same thing_, after all…)

"No!" Anthea begged, turning around to face Lewis and falling to her knees, "Please don't do this! I'll do whatever you want-"

"Shut up! Just shut up!" Lewis barked, "Quiet! I need quiet! Be quiet!"

Anthea quieted her sobs and all was still and silent…

…until the drum beat of a helicopter could be heard overhead.

"What?" Lewis exclaimed, looking up at the black flying machine, "No! More eyes! Always watching, always watching!"

He turned his guns away from Anthea and aimed them at the helicopter hovering above, black against the light gray clouds.

The helicopter circled around and Lewis traced the circle with his weapons, waiting for the right time to shoot.

Finally a shot rang out, echoing against the labyrinth-like halls of concrete.

And Lewis fell forwards.

Standing behind him (and now over him) was Anthea.

While his back was turned, Anthea had shot Lewis in the back of the head.

(A bit of a cowardly move, _sure_…but Lewis would have done the same to her and the men if she hadn't realized he wasn't in the yellow-doored storage unit.)

Anthea looked away from Lewis's body and up at the helicopter, completely unarmed, in the sky.

She nodded to it and Jim could see a man inside nod back.

Although it was too far away to really tell, Jim knew that the man could only be Mycroft Holmes, gazing down at his employee like an approving god.

(Anthea= John(2)…and yet, for some reason, John was still _'greater than'_ Anthea.)

* * *

><p><em>Where was Sherlock? <em>

Unavailable.

But _why?_

He and John had come all this way to the United States of America, to solve a case in New York City about a banker (probably dead) who had ended up missing (probably dead)…along with all his money.

There had been a lawsuit and criminal investigation pending against this investment banker, who had lost all his client's money in the stock market and yet made hundreds of millions for himself.

And then he was _gone._

(Dead or unavailable.)

John stood in the spacious, clean and nicely furnished office of the missing man, in his wealthy (once but no longer) reputable Wallstreet firm.

_Where was Sherlock? _

This was _his_ case, after all, it was _his _decision to take it and come all the way across the pond and now he was _gone_ (dead or unavailable) to _where_, John did _not_ know.

"This is his computer." A very sexy assistant stated, gesturing to the desktop on the dark, red, wooden desk, "…or was, at least, if he really is dead…"

She talked in one of those stereotypical New York accents that John had only heard on television before today.

John and the American detective followed the assistant over to the desk looking more at her curves in her tight dress than the computer she was pointing too.

(They were disappointed when she sat down at the desk in front of the desk top, obscuring the view of her behind…

…but then very happy to realize that as she sat and they stood, they had the perfect view of her cleavage.)

"We don't know _who_ got access to his money…or_ how_…" she told them, clicking away the keyboard, "…but someone took all of it from his online account and transferred it to somewhere else. We don't know _where_."

Was there anything that she_ did_ know?

…_did it even matter? _

(She obviously wasn't hired because of her intelligence…)

"When did you last see your boss?" the American police detective asked the assistant.

He didn't have as prevalent an accent as she did, but it was still there, harsher and grittier, like a movie cop.

"About a week ago…" the assistant answered, shrugging, "I dunno exactly…I told the police everything I know so many times, why are we doing this again!"

This was going nowhere, John could tell.

If Sherlock were here the case would have been solved by now…

…but Sherlock was _unavailable. _

John tried to think of the kind of questions Sherlock would ask.

"…um…Did anyone strange come into the office right before your boss disappeared?" he decided on asking, "…or did he receive any strange phone calls or emails…?"

"Oh!" The assistant exclaimed and John for an instant actually thought he was going to get a helpful answer and solve the case (take _that_, Sherlock, he could do _his_ job _without _him!), "…You've got an accent! It's adorable! Where are you from?"

"…London…" John sighed and then added, "England." In case she didn't know where the city was, Americans being poorly educated and all that.

"Oh my gosh!" the assistant squealed, "I love British people! They're so funny!"

"Yeah…" John said, staring at the ceiling.

"I say!" the assistant did a poor imitation of a British accent, "Cheerio! Fish and chips!"

"John groaned, then reciting the polite "Thank you for your time, ma'am…I have to go now."

"Olive wa!" the assistant waved and John hurried out of the office, "…oh wait! That's France!"

The American police officer followed John. Once they were in the elevator, he finally spoke again.

"…aren't you supposed to be, like, some kind of _genius detective_, or something?" he asked, raising an eyebrow, "…and solve the case in, like, ten minutes…?"

"That's my partner, Sherlock Holmes…" John explained, sighing, "I don't where he is…sorry about that…"

"…oh." the officer replied, awkwardly, "That's not very professional."

"I'm going to go look for him." John declared, once the elevator reached the ground floor, "I'll come back to your precinct once I find him and we'll solve this thing, alright?"

The officer nodded and he and John parted ways as they walked out of the skyscraper on to the crowded, dirty streets of New York City.

As he walked, trying to avoid bumping into people, John called and texted Sherlock multiple times, never receiving a response.

_Great_, Sherlock Holmes had disappeared in NYC, USA leaving John alone to solve the case…

_Where was Sherlock?_

* * *

><p>"Hey, babe." Jim greeted, strolling into the office once John and the American police officer had left and raising a hand half way in a half wave.<p>

The assistant stood up from the desk and crossed the carpet over to him.

"You're back!" She was surprised, but pleasantly so.

She had no strong accent.

Smiling, the assistant leaned in for a kiss and got more than a mouthful. Jim, himself, got more than a handful of what John and the officer had been staring longingly at.

"Nice accent." He grinned, pulling away from the kiss but not the embrace.

"Thanks." The assistant thanked, her voice returning to the earlier manner (which was really more Jersey than New York), "I thought it was too over the top but no one else seemed to notice…or figure out it was me who sent all that money overseas, _they all thought I was too stupid to even suspect me of anything_… funny what people'll believe…"

"_You've got a future on Broadway, kid_." Jim told her, trying out California even though California had Hollywood not Broadway.

(The assistant wondered if British people knew that. _She wondered if it even mattered_…)

"I wasn't lying, you know…" the assistant said, looking down at her foot, drawing circles in the carpet with the toe of her high-heeled shoe, "…not about loving British people…"

_Oh_, this was _too easy_…

Jim kissed her again.

Women _all _were just _too easy_…

…except for one (_two_, really, but only _one_ of them _counted_).

(And Molly_ would_ call. It was just a matter of _when_.)

"I'm _not _British, love…" Jim told the assistant, breaking the kiss, and then shouting, "I'M IRISH!" and throwing her to the floor.

"What are you gonna do to me?" she yelped, from the floor, inching away from him as he advanced menacing in both pose and expression.

Jim walked towards the assistant and bent down next to her, reaching forward.

But instead of grabbing her, he grabbed the handle of the tiny cabinet she crouched next to, inches from her brown hair, and opened it.

Taking the most expensive bottle of her boss's collection of expensive liquor, Jim stood back up and walked to the door.

Leaning against it, he took a swig.

_Where was Sherlock? _

If Sherlock was here, this case would have probably been solved already…

(Solved meaning the guy Jim had set up to take _the fall_ for killing the investment banker that lost all his money would be apprehended.)

But Sherlock had not come to this office, Sherlock was _unavailable._

That meant Jim's plan wasn't complete…

(The '_fall guy'_ still had to take _the fall_.)

_Time to make Sherlock do his job. _

Jim almost finished the bottle, which was more than half empty to begin with, leaving just a few drops inside.

"Ahhh…" he sighed, smacking his lips, "That's the good stuff."

(It tasted terrible. One was _not_ supposed to _chug _that kind of beverage.)

The assistant was still on the floor, but slowly began to stand.

"Catch!" Jim shouted.

He jettisoned the bottle towards her with all his force.

It hit her in the face, the heavy glass not even shattering but giving the same affect as if Jim had hit her over the head with a brick.

The assistant crumpled too the floor in a puddle of bourbon and blood and drool dripping from her mouth.

_Maybe_ she was dead…or_ maybe _she just had a concussion.

Either way, an attack on the missing banker's secretary was sure to draw Sherlock back onto the case.

Besides, Jim never liked this girl anyway.

He walked away, shoving his hands into his pockets (and feeling his phone in one), out of the office and started towards the elevator.

(And Molly would call, _she really would._ It was just a matter of when.)

* * *

><p>When John finally found Sherlock… he was in New Jersey, sitting alone at a booth in some trashy but quaint (stereotypical 1950's) American diner.<p>

He crumpled and napkin and pushed it into his coat pocket as soon as he saw John walk in.

"What happened?" John demanded, "You just up and left me there with the police and the case! _Where_ were you? And _what _are you doing all the way here?"

"Sightseeing." Sherlock answered in a mutter, rolling his eyes.

John sat down across from Sherlock on the red (fake) leather cushion, raising an eyebrow.

"_Sightseeing_?" he repeated, "…_in New Jersey? _Really, Sherlock, I'm not you but I'm not stupid. What were you_ really_ doing?"

(Buying drugs? John panicked for a few seconds.)

"Leave me alone." Sherlock grumbled, glaring down at the sticky menu in his hands.

"…fine then." John agreed, "About the case-"

"Too easy." Sherlock stated, not looking up at John, "Didn't even need to be there. That's why I didn't go with you on that unnecessary trip to the office or the precinct. _The banker isn't dead._ He faked his own death to escape criminal prosecution and paying restitution."

"But—what—how do you know?" John asked, for what felt like the millionth time.

"Like I said, too easy." Sherlock replied, "If a disgruntled client was going to get revenge on him by killing him…he would have left the body for all to see, to show the world that the banker was guilty and _deserved_ death. The banker wouldn't have just _disappeared_… His body would have been _found_, probably badly beaten and mutilated, with some kind of message or warning-perhaps, even evidence of his crimes. If he had been killed by an investor, this would have been _justice._ No need to_ hide_ the body. But the 'body' is _hiding _because the 'body' is still _alive_…it's just currently _unavailable._"

"And so where is the body—um—_banker_, then?" John inquired, looking at Sherlock and hoping he would look up.

"_Gone_." Sherlock said.

"…_I see_…and to_ where_ has he _'gone'_?"

Sherlock shook his head, still staring at the menu.

He didn't want to say that he didn't know and John knew that if Sherlock couldn't find the banker than nobody would.

But that wasn't the only reason Sherlock was in a bad (sad?) mood.

"Alright then…" John decided, "We can go and tell that to the NYPD tomorrow…"

"Why _tomorrow_?" Sherlock asked, "Why not just go tell them today? Or better yet, just text them…"

"Because it's getting late and I'm getting hungry." John explained, "I've just spent the past six hours running around New York City looking for you until the concierge at the hotel finally told me that you asked for directions to New Jersey and a tourist from home told me that he recognized you and saw you go into this restaurant."

"You're quite the detective, John." Sherlock deadpanned, still staring at the menu.

"Obviously you must be hungry too, since you can't take your eyes off that menu." John snapped, "So let's have dinner—"

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock stated, smacking down his menu and shooting up from his seat, "We're leaving."

"No we're not!" John exclaimed, "I haven't even ordered yet!"

"Stay here in this disgusting excuse for an eating establishment and gorge on grease and transfats if you really want to," Sherlock spat, turning to go, "but _I'm_ leaving."

"_No_ _you're_ _not_." John declared. Now he was also standing and he reached across the table, placing both hands on Sherlock's shoulders and sitting him back down. "_We're _going to eat."

"…_fine_." Sherlock agreed, seated once again and picking up the menu, "…What looks _tolerable_ here?"

As always, Jim watched from a safe distance (as a tourist who was _sightseeing _in New Jersey).

Why was John the only person able to_ force _Sherlock to eat (or do _anything_) without actual _force_?

It wasn't _fair_…

…and it wasn't _even._

_Did that mean Sherlock was 'less than' John?_

And what did that _mean_ for Jim?

Jim didn't know, _he never was all that great with math…_

* * *

><p>The last time Molly had done <em>this<em> was when she first started work down in the morgue.

Absentminded chatter, more to herself, really, than to the bodies…

"_What should I have for lunch today? Oh, a bag of crisps? Good idea!…have any money to loan me for the machine?" _

…and only 'to' the bodies as a_ joke _when she finally realized she was doing it.

_Who else did she have to talk to down there (or anywhere else) anyway? _

But, of course, because Molly was strange, and quiet, and shy, and clumsy, and nervous and_ Molly_ her boss thought she was _crazy. _

Self-conscious and afraid of being fired, Molly quickly stopped talking to the bodies (to herself) while she worked.

Self-conscious and afraid of being _crazy_, Molly quickly stopped talking to herself at home, too.

Now Molly decided that she probably_ was _crazy.

_But who else could she talk to, except the bodies? _

Sherlock was _gone_ (where? Lestrade had mentioned he had left but didn't say to where) and even if Sherlock was here he wouldn't really want to talk to her anyway.

(Always unavailable.)

Molly hadn't spoken to her 'friends' (all two of them, both married, one pregnant one already with children) in months. And her 'family' (older brother, younger sister, stepmother) she didn't even _want_ to talk to them (and hadn't in over a year).

_So who else could she talk to, but her 'patients'? _

And she _was_ crazy, Molly decided again, she was _definitely_ crazy.

"I _must_ be crazy." She stated, sewing up her patient's stomach.

(She could sew _skin_, but never_ fabric_ despite her stepmother's vain attempts to teach her (and bond with her)…or maybe that was _why _Molly never could sew fabric.)

Molly finished and then pulled the white sheet back over the corpse (a man who had been killed in a fist-fight turned knife-fight) as if she was tucking in a child.

"I must be crazy…" she repeated, "…because why else would I be considering calling _him_…?"

(She would not utter the name 'Jim Moriarty' with in the walls of the St. Bart's again, just as a precaution, so nobody would _know._)

"Yes you _are_ crazy." The patient agreed, "Why else would you possibly want to contact a criminal? _He'll kill you_. Having a suicidal tendency _is_ a _mental illness_."

"…you're probably right…" Molly muttered and went over to the refrigerated wall.

She opened two body drawers, one empty and one occupied by another 'patient' (the man who had turned the fist fight-fight into a knife-fight).

"Don't listen to him." the second patient said, "You know _ol' Jimmy boy_ won't kill _you_—"

"Don't say his name!" Molly squeaked.

"Why not?" the second patient laughed, "It's not like anyone can hear me but you, Molly…"

"Oh…right…" Molly remembered.

_These voices were in her head._

The first one sounded suspiciously like Sherlock Holmes and _the second…_

"Jim Moriarty." The second patient said, all sing-songy, "There, I've said it again._ Jim Moriarty, Jim Moriarty, Jim_—"

"Oh, shut up!" the first patient groaned, "No one wants to hear that murderous psychopath's name."

"Than what name_ do_ you want to hear?" the second asked, "… '_Sherlock Holmes'_?"

"Neither of them, no names, nothing at all." The first answered, "How about you just stay _quiet_."

"Aww, but that's no fun—"

"_Quiet_!"

Molly watched the two corpses argue.

They were sitting up on their respective silver slabs, all shouts and gestures and facial expressions…

…except they weren't.

They were lying silently, motionless, and _dead. _

"I must be crazy." Molly said for the third time that afternoon.

"No." the second body countered, "Just lonely…is it a _crime_ to want somebody to pay attention to you…?"

"It _is_ when you want that person to be Jim Moriarty." The first body declared.

"I don't—" Molly started.

"_Yes you do_." The second interrupted, like an echo of words and insight previously thrown in Molly's face.

"Not at first…" Molly reasoned, "I wanted Sherlock first. I still want Sherlock…but Ji—'_he'_ came to _me_."

"And isn't that what you've always wanted?" the second reminded, "To be _chased_, rather than run after somebody you can never catch…?"

"I guess…"

"There'll be other men, Molly—" the first began, but was cut off.

"_No._ There _won't._" the second stated, "Not like Sherlock Holmes, not like Jim Moriarty."

"Forget about them both, Molly." The first instructed, looking and Molly, and then turned to the man who had killed him and who he had killed, "And _you_ shut up."

"I'm telling her the _truth_!" the second snapped, "You're just telling her to_ lie_ to herself!"

"_Everyone lies_, to others _and_ to themselves…" the first said, "It's _normal._ If we didn't we'd all be _crazy_…"

"Maybe it's _better_, then…" the second mused, "_being crazy_…"

"I must be crazy,_ I must be crazy_…" Molly told herself, shaking her head in the silence as she pulled her phone from her white labcoat pocket.

* * *

><p><strong>...so! <strong>

**lol **

**Hope it's not too weird or confusing...**

**(Just ask if you need an explanation for anything, I'll always explain...including spoilers.) **

**And I really wish they let me use the 'greater than' and 'less than' symbols... (can't even make angry eyes face to complain about it). **

**Review? **


	18. and the Mirror

** I know everyone wanted Jim to 'cave' and 'come crawling back' to Molly, but I feel like he's always the one 'making the first move' and so now it's her turn...lol **

**And guess who we get to meet this chapter...! **

**Our mysterious friend! **

**FINALLY!**

**lol**

**Hope you like it :) **

* * *

><p><em>I must be crazy…but I want to see you. You win. <em>

_-Molly _

(Jim _knew_ Molly would contact him. It was only a matter of _when._ Only a matter of_ time_…and it had been _three days_.)

_Too easy? _

No.

Because with Molly Hooper being 'off-limits' nothing would ever be _easy._

Still, Jim was all smiles as he stared down at the text message.

And replied:

_Meet me at the airport in 30 mins. _

_-Jim _

**####**

_The airport? Why? _

_-Molly_

**####**

_Don't worry I'm not 'stealing you away'…yet. _

_I just got back to the country. _

_-Jim_

**###**

_Ok._

_I'll be there. _

_-Molly_

**####**

_Oh, and Molly…? _

_-Jim_

**####**

_Yes?_

_-Molly_

**####**

_You ARE crazy. _

_-Jim_

* * *

><p>Molly (shivering not only because she left her labcoat behind, but because of <em>who<em> she was going to see and the_ decision_ she had just made) stepped out of the hospital onto the sidewalk, hurrying past the parking garage to stand on the side of the street and hopefully flag down a taxi.

Soon enough, a cab pulled up to the curb and Molly entered in from the cold, gray day…into an unheated car.

"Um, Heathrow airport please…" She told the driver.

"Yes ma'am." He said, nodding but not turning around to face her and he drove the car away from the hospital.

Molly wanted to ask him to turn on the heat, but couldn't find her voice and so instead sat shivering, trying to focus on the tiny television screens they had inside the taxis nowadays.

After awhile, the advertisements bored her and so she looked out the window.

_They were going the wrong way. _

"Um…excuse me…" Molly spoke up, timidly, after waiting a few minutes just to make sure the driver wasn't going to make a u-turn or something, " I'm sorry, but the airport is the other direction…"

"Yes ma'am." The driver replied, still not turning around.

(Maybe he was just 'going the long way' to make more fare…? _Molly didn't think so_.)

"…Why are we going the wrong way?" she asked.

"Because, ma'am, you have a meeting with my employer."

* * *

><p>Jim had actually bought a ticket, this time (using a stolen credit card and fake passport), both to the United States and back to London, just so a <em>'certain someone'<em> would not find out.

And now he was sitting on a bench in the crowded airport near the entrance, watching passerbys, watching for Molly.

He still had about twenty minutes to go until she should be there and there was always the possibility of her being late, caught in traffic, or having second thoughts and not showing up at all.

And so Jim decided to do what he always did, distract himself with his phone.

* * *

><p>Yesterday Jim Moriarty had been in the United States of America.<p>

And so had Sherlock Holmes.

And so had Irene Adler.

* * *

><p>"Thanks for dinner…" <em>she <em>had said, whispered in his ear, "…It was lovely…"

And then _she _was _gone _and Sherlock was left there in the sand, in the cold desert night, with only the stolen black robes as blankets.

_She_, The Woman.

Now, Sherlock was here in New York City.

(It was not to solve an all-too-obvious case, but to travel one state over to New Jersey.)

He and John stood in front of the NYPD headquarters, about to venture in.

"I'll be right in." Sherlock told John, "You go in and get everything ready."

John looked at him, opening his mouth, about to ask "why"… but then he saw Sherlock reach into his coat pocket as if going for a cigarette and decided not to say anything.

Sherlock watched John shrug, shake his head, turn and walk into the building.

Buildings, they were all tall in downtown London, but they were all even taller in New York City.

Sherlock was going to where they were shorter.

That morning, before John had even woken up (from their SEPARATE ROOMS ( as insisted by John)), Sherlock had acquired directions to and a map of Newark, New Jersey from the concierge.

Soon, Sherlock was in the back of a yellow taxi, inside a tunnel (the Lincoln Tunnel—deleted) that was taking him under a body of water (the Hudson River—deleted) to New Jersey.

And then he was paying the driver and stepping out of the cab onto street of short, red and orange houses, in front one specific townhouse.

122 Panettiere drive.

(Recovered-Panettiere. Baker in Italian.)

_Close enough. _

She did like to play _games_…

Once the taxi was gone, Sherlock walked up the concrete path, past the small, slightly snow-covered yard, and knocked on the front door.

It opened, just a crack, but instead of _her_ answering, it was another woman (brown hair. Obviously dyed. Auburn at the roots) whose name Sherlock had either never even known or deleted.

"…She's not here." Kate told Sherlock, knowing who he was and who he was looking for.

"…oh." Sherlock replied, studying the woman's worried, nervous face, "She knew I was coming…" he deduced.

"Yes she did." Kate affirmed, nodding sadly, "She's waiting for you. At the diner. _Angelo's_…it's just up the street, you can't miss—"

"I know where it is." Sherlock stated. He had seen it on the ride there.

_She loved to play games…_

Sherlock thanked the woman, who nodded and closed the door, and then walked the few blocks over to the diner.

But when he arrived_ she_ was not there waiting for him.

All that was, was a note, scrawled on a paper napkin.

_Mr. Holmes, _

_We're in Witness Protection, you weren't supposed to find us._

_You weren't supposed to find me. _

_You saved my life and I owe you a debt so if there's anything I can ever do to repay you, just ask and I'll be there._

_But other than that, I think its best that we don't see each other. _

_You see, I'm free now. _

_Everyone thinks I'm dead and now I'm free. _

_I'm happy. _

_I told Kate (as you probably 'deduced' from seeing her at my new house) that I was still alive, despite your recommendations. I couldn't just let her think I was dead (even if everyone else did)…_

_And now we're here and we're both happy._

_I'm going to run, Sherlock, but please, don't chase me. _

_For your sake and mine, don't chase me. _

_It was fun while it lasted, The Game, but it's over now. _

_You're the only man who's ever beaten me and you'll always be the one man who's ever meant anything to me…_

'_The Man' (if you will)_

_But if we stay together, we'll destroy each other. _

_It's like when two burning stars begin to orbit each other. They dance around, drawing closer and closer until they finally collide, bursting in an explosion of gas and fire. _

_It's better to just be content with the planets circling around you. _

_I have Kate and you have John. _

_All we do is take, people like us, we're fires consuming everything in our paths. _

_John can give you far more than I ever could. _

_And you don't even have to chase him, he'll come to you. _

_Just sit there and he will come to you, he will always come to you. _

_-The Woman _

And Sherlock sat there, in the both with the red cushions, reading and re-reading the letter until (as _she_ had predicted) John found him and walked in.

He crumpled the note and put it into his pocket, not looking up at him.

* * *

><p>Instead of leaving downtown London, Molly was driven (against her will) deeper into the city until the taxi reached a tall building.<p>

It parked by the curb (illegally) and the driver got out.

Molly considered jumping out of the cab and making a run for it but before she could do so, the driver was at her car-door, pulling it open for her.

Molly reluctantly got out, looking around to see if she recognized the area.

It was near the banking district…she thought…maybe…

"Follow me, ma'am." The driver said, closing the door behind her and then leading her towards the revolving doors.

The skyscraper shined silver, the glass of its windows all-but-completely reflective and mirroring the gray skies.

Molly followed the driver inside the building, through a bustling lobby and up the elevator to the top floor.

That floor was mostly empty and dimly lit.

When Molly (and the man escorting her) exited the elevator, all she could see was a desk, a chair and a man sitting in the chair at a desk.

"Thank you, Sebastian, you know what to do now…" The man said, and rose, "And welcome, Miss Hooper."

The driver (apparently named Sebastian as Molly had just learned) nodded and stepped back into the elevator, leaving her there with this new unknown person.

There was no heating in this wide, almost empty room and it was very cold.

Shivering, Molly cautiously walked forwards.

"…Who…are you?" she asked, looking the man up and down.

He was in his late forties, she 'deduced' from his graying hair (parted with impossible rigidness) and facial hair (beard and mustache, square-shaped and neatly trimmed, without even one hair missed). And he was well-dressed in a suit that looked very expensive and _very familiar._

"Please, sit down." He urged politely, pulling out his chair and offering it to her, "… I apologize for the lack of proper furnishings. This isn't my usual office. It was all thrown together at the last moment. I normally take much more care in decorating…"

Molly sat down, hugging herself to keep warm.

"Who are you?" She repeated, looking up at him from where he stood next to her.

"James Moriarty." He stated and then extended the hand down to her.

"What?" Molly squeaked, jumping her seat a little, _"No._ You're not—You can't be—I _know_ him!"

"You must be referring to '_Jim', _as he's recently returned to calling himself." James Moriarty responded, "My _brother_."

He retracted his hand and used it to massage his brow as if the words 'Jim' and 'brother' were headaches.

"No." Molly exclaimed shaking her head, "if you _were _brothers….why would you have the same name?"

"Mother _was_ a brilliant woman…" James sighed, "But always very repetitive…"

"I don't_ believe_ you!" Molly declared, leaping up, "This is a trick!"

"I don't have time to debate this." James said, his cordial manner and voice gone, "Sit back down and _listen." _

Molly lowered herself back into the chair that was probably some antique worth more than her life's savings.

"… listen to what?" She questioned, nervously.

"My brother, Jim Moriarty..." James told her, leaning back against the desk again, "…I've been trying, _in vain_, for almost a year now, to keep him away from you, Miss Hooper. Not for your safety because I honestly can't say that's my concern…but for _his. _My brother has always been a _dangerous_ human being. Always, he's loved to _play with fire_…Ever since childhood, his _job _has been to make trouble and _my job_ has been to clean up his messes. It's never been _easy _but only recently has my brother began to so openly, deliberately_ rebel _against my influence. Do you know _why_ that is, Miss Hooper?"

"…Sherlock Holmes?" Molly guessed.

"No." James chuckled lightly, "If it were Sherlock Holmes, then he would be sitting before me today, not you…_You_, Miss Hooper, are the _'why_'."

"_This is a trick_…" Molly whispered again, again shaking her head, "None of this is _true_...I could never be that _important_ to him…"

"You are." James countered, "Even if my brother doesn't realize it himself, you are…and that is what makes _you _so _dangerous._"

"…why?" Molly inquired.

_"Why?" _James repeated, _almost_ chuckling, "Because you're too close to Scotland Yard. Because you're too close Sherlock Holmes. And, most importantly, because you are not like him."

Although he was trying to hide it, he was angry and when he got angry, Molly noticed, his upper class British accent fell into an Irish one…

But before James could continue with his rant to Molly, shrinking back into the chair away from him, the elevator doors re-opened.

Sebastian Moran was back in the spacious room, carrying a silver tray of teapot and teacups, which he place down onto the desk.

"Oh, looks like the tea's here..." James acknowledged.

Molly instinctively went towards the warmth of the tea while Sebastian decanted it into the two little cups.

Molly wondered how this Sebastian person managed to stay so _expressionless_ in, to be so _normal _about such a strange (crazy) situation as bringing Jim Moriarty's brother a pot of tea.

Once the tea was poured, James turned back to Molly.

He sat up on the desk, one leg folded over the other, holding a teacup in one hand and the saucer in the other, right below.

This could_ not_ be _real_…

Jim _had_ to have set this up, somehow, for some reason (who knows his strange and crazy reasons), to _mess _with Molly.

"As I was saying…" James began, "For various, obvious reasons you should stay away from my brother, Jim. Either by your own volition…_or because you're lying cold on your own morgue table_…tea?"

Scary,_ yes_, but by this point Molly was _used_ to threats on her life.

Once and while, she even_ welcomed_ them.

(From Jim (not James) Moriarty.)

They were _normal._

_Boring. _

"Yes, thank you." Molly replied, picking up the other teacup and taking a sip, "…What did you mean before, when you said that I wasn't _'like'_ Jim?"

James set his cup and saucer back down on the tray.

"Only the most intelligent of animals," he explained, "can recognize themselves in a mirror. Most, when faced with their own reflection, believe it to be another member of their species. Some even_ attack_ it."

"…okay…?"

"Pretend, Miss Hooper, that you were to fight your reflection…"

"…_okay_…?"

"Who would win?"

"…Me, I suppose…or no one, really…"

"That's right. _No one._ Because there was really only one player in the game to begin with…"

Molly took another sip of tea and James stood up from the desk top.

"What does that have to do with Jim…with _me_?" she asked.

"That's what my brother's been _doing_, Miss Hooper," James explained, "_fighting his own reflection. _And it's all been fine, up until now. He's been doing his _'job'_, 'consulting criminal' or whatever his ludicrous and ever-changing obsession is _this_ week…and I've been doing _mine._ I've been cleaning up his messes and keeping him _busy…_That's what happens when he fights his reflection. He stays _busy._ Because when you fight yourself….no one ever _wins_. The match just continues, blow for blow, and he keeps _busy_. And I keep everything _under control."_

He began to pace the room in a very 'Jim from IT'-like fashion, circling the desk and Molly like a vulture.

"I know all his _moves_, you see," James continued, "So when Jim fights his mirror image, I know all _his opponent's_ moves too. Sherlock Holmes I can predict, just like I can my own brother…_and so_ Sherlock Holmes I can _control_, just like I can _my own brother_…but _you_, Miss Hooper, are _not_ like my brother. I can't predict what _you'll_ do, I can't _control you_…"

"_Control me_?" Molly coughed, taken a back but making sure she did not choke on her tea.

She set the cup and saucer down on the desk.

Under and next to the silver tray, Molly could see rows of papers, charts and graphs, all with a _very familiar_ logo (the PICA security system logo!).

There were notes in neat handwriting written in the margins of these papers, mostly just numbers.

James removed the china from atop these papers and placed them on the tray where they covered her reflection in it.

"The numbers," he told Molly, with another sigh, sitting back down on the desk next to but above her, "If you know the numbers, you know the patterns. If you know the patterns you can predict. If you can predict, you can prepare. if you can prepare, you can manipulate. If you can manipulate, _you can control_."

"…okay…?" Molly said for the third time, although she didn't really understand what his point was.

"You still don't believe me?" James interrupted, _"_Did you know that the other day I almost had you killed?"

"What!?" Molly cried.

"You set my brother up to get arrested at that little coffee shop." James recounted, "But I had a gunman trained on you the whole time."

He gestured over at Sebastian who was leaning against the wall next to the elevator, watching the conversation from afar with a blank but intense stare.

Sebastian nodded when Molly turned to look at him. His face was far away, but she could've sworn she saw what was almost a smile on his face...

"What do you want me to do?" Molly asked, looking back at James.

"Stay away from Jim Moriarty." James answered.

"…and what if _he _doesn't stay away from _me_?" Molly tried, a statement brave in two regards _(cheeky_ to someone who could possibly kill her, and _presumptive _about someone who might not actually want to see her again).

"Don't you worry about that, Miss Hooper." James dismissed, finishing his cup of tea, "I'm sure I'll be speaking with him soon. You do your job…and I'll do _mine_."

* * *

><p>Jim, '<em>friendly British tourist'<em>, lost in New Jersey, was kind enough (and somehow able) to give John Watson directions to Sherlock Holmes' (who he was a big fan of) location from behind a map, opened and stretched wide, obscuring his face.

Once he had watched John go into the diner and sit down across from Sherlock, considered his work to be done (for the moment) and walked the couple blocks through the neighborhood until he reached the little orange townhouse labeled 122 Panettiere drive.

He knocked.

The door opened a crack and Kate peered out.

Her face was suddenly afraid (as it always was when she saw Jim Moriarty (but the wide eyes and mouth were never as good as Molly's))…but there had been _relief _there only moments before and some of it was there still.

"She's inside." Kate told Jim, and opened the door full, moving out of the way for him to enter and then closing it behind him when he did.

Jim saw Irene sitting on the (obviously used) couch, dressed like a_ normal_ person in jeans and a t-shirt.

Kate (also dressed normally) hadn't known if Irene would return from her meeting with Sherlock, she had been afraid the two would run away together…

…and she had been relieved (shocked, too) when they hadn't and Irene had come back to her.

And now she was shocked and scared to see Jim Moriarty (who always brought _trouble_), standing in their 'hideout'…but relieved that it was _not _Sherlock Holmes.

"_What _do you _want_?" Irene demanded immediately, standing up.

There was no pretense of politeness in her tone.

She had just escaped death, she would _not_ have a_ man_ (Sherlock _or_ Jim) ruin her newfound freedom and happiness.

"I want to know—" Jim started.

"Oh not this again!" Irene exclaimed, rolling her eyes and flopping back down onto the couch.

"Let me finish!" Jim whined.

"Go ahead…" Irene groaned and waved a hand, "Continue."

"I want to know," Jim said, "Why. Why _not_ Sherlock?"

Irene sighed, smiling sadly and shaking her head.

"Sit down…" She offered and gestured to the space next to her on the tattered sofa.

Jim shrugged and sauntered over, sitting down and facing Irene.

"I'll go put some tea on…" Kate decided, speaking more to herself, "Or…um…_coffee_…we _are_ in America now.."

And she quickly took her leave of the room.

They heard her footsteps enter the kitchen, but afterwards no sounds of any cooking taking place. She could here _them_ talking in the other room, too.

"Why_ not_ Sherlock?" Jim repeated, sincerely confused, "You _had _him. You could've had him forever…_why not_?"

"Because," Irene explained, "You can't love your own reflection. It's not _healthy_…We're too alike, Sherlock and I."

"_No you're not!"_ Jim snapped, laughing, "Not like _I'm_ like Sherlock. Not like Sherlock and_ I_ are alike! He's _my _reflection, _not_ yours!"

"No need to get _possessive_, dear." Irene chirped, "Didn't I tell you before that _you _could have him…?"

She was no longer _afraid _of 'angry' Jim…in fact, she was beginning to believe that he was _faking_ it.

"Yes, you _did_." Jim confirmed, "But _you_ just said that isn't 'healthy', _Dr. Adler_."

"It's not." Irene said, seriously, "You shouldn't love your reflection. It's just arrogant. And you'll see it everywhere…No…what you need to love is your mirror. Find one good mirror and love it, because your mirror will give you your reflection and more…it'll show you who you are, and it'll love you for it…and it'll also show you who you _can _be."

"Now isn't that just_ beautiful_." Jim snorted, "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all? Well I can't show you _that_, but _I can show you who you_ _can_ _be_! That is just too beautiful, Irene, too beautiful. You make that up all by yourself?"

"No." Irene said, "I had help."

She glanced over to the wall that separated the living room from the kitchen where _now_ Kate could be heard using the coffee-maker.

Jim glanced at the wall and rolled his eyes.

"Really?" he asked, raising an eyebrow when he turned back to Irene, "'Love your mirror'? _Really?_"

"I _knew _you wouldn't understand." Irene sniffed, still gazing at the damaged wall, "_Sherlock _won't either. But luckily for him, _he_ has somebody who_ will_."

John.

Irene was _right._

Sherlock had a John.

_The _John.

And Irene had a John too; Kate.

And so did Lestrade; Sally, Anderson and (sometimes) Dimmock.

And so did Mycroft; Anthea (and the black suited men).

But who did _Jim_ have?

…_no one. _

…_nothing. _

Jim didn't have a John…

He stood up from the couch and so did Irene.

"Leaving so soon?" Irene inquired as he started towards the door.

(Ha, _ha_! Finally, she was _winning.) _

(She had come along way from being all but _defeated_ by Jim Christmas Day.)

"Gotta get back to work, you know." He mumbled, not facing her as he rushed to exit.

"You're not staying for te-_coffee_?" Kate, who was suddenly back in the room with a clear plastic container filled with steaming dark brown liquid, added.

"_Hell no_!" Jim declared, "I wouldn't even_ touch_ that disgusting excuse for a drink!_ I_ have _class_."

(It was a _lie_, of course. Jim actually preferred coffee to tea.)

With that, he opened the door, stomping outside, and then slamming it behind him.

Left inside, Irene and Kate giggled to themselves and then went to drink the coffee in the kitchen.

Alone outside, Jim trudged away from the house.

(Molly was going to call, Molly would call, she _would_, soon, _soon_…)

* * *

><p>And yesterday Sherlock Holmes had been in the United States of America.<p>

And so had Irene Adler.

And so had Jim Moriarty.

* * *

><p>Now, Jim sat at the bench in the airport, re-reading the text Molly had sent him and waiting for her to arrive.<p>

(She was _late_, but there _could_ be traffic…_Jim didn't think so, though_.)

_Where was Molly? _

Unavailable…?

_No._

Never to _him._

So where was she…?

There were many possibilities…

...but there was only one _probability._

Jim clicked out of Molly's text message and dialed a number he was not supposed to dial, holding the phone up to his ear.

It rang.

"_University, how may I direct your call?" _the voice on the other end asked.

"Hi, may I speak to Professor James Moriarty?"

"_One moment, please." _

It rang again.

"_I'm sorry."_ The voice apologized, _"But it seems Professor Moriarty is unavailable at the moment…" (the sound of typing on a keyboard), "…our records show he left early today…at around eleven this morning…"_

"Okay, thank you." Jim thanked and hung up the phone.

…'_Eleven this morning'_…

…it was 10:53AM when Molly had first texted Jim.

He was _right._

His brother, James Moriarty, had once again decided to interfere in his business…this time, _personally_, it seemed.

Jim stood up from the bench, shoving his phone into his pocket and almost running towards the airport exit, pushing past people on his way out.

He had _warned_ James.

And if his brother wanted a war…_then there would be a war._

* * *

><p><strong>And there you have it! <strong>

** James Moriarty, older brother of Jim Moriarty!**

** (My dear Wikipedia said actually there were THREE of them lol) **

**I thought since Sherlock had Mycroft, Jim should have James. **

**(..._And_ it helped move the plot along lol...)**

** And why PICA?**

**Because 'pica' is the _genera classification_ of the bird Magpie (also via Wikipedia lol).**

**And why a Magpie? **

**Because Wikipedia told me Moriarty used that bird as his _'mascot'_ or whatever...(very intellegent, it can recognize itself in a MIRROR!)**

**And you'll all learn more about big-brother James Moriarty (my fanfic version, of course) in the comming chapters lol! **

** Reactions? **


	19. Balancing Equations

**Again, and as always, thanks for the reviews! **

**Writing this fanfiction is really all I have lol and so these reviews and compliments make me the happiest I can possibily be (bordering on eurphoria, sometimes lol) so thank you all so much!**

**Well here's my usual 'this chapter starts off a little weird don't be scared and stop reading' thingy...lol**

** ...and also, because people were complaining sorry for too much Sherlock and John and what could be considered Sherlock and John slash lol. **

**That was for mirror's sake, I swear! **

** I was trying to make a sort of parallel situation going on here between Jim and Sherlock's lives...perhaps I went too far? lol**

** Sorry. **

** ...**

**... **

**And as for this chapter, it's back to Jim. **

**Not any Molly though (it's gonna be her POV next chapter)...**

** ...but there the beginings of Jim and James' WAR! **

**Hope you like. **

* * *

><p><em>Given,<em>

Irene=Sherlock _but not as much as_ Jim=Sherlock

Jim=Sherlock=Irene=(reflections)

Jim=Sherlock=Irene=(gods)

Sherlock + Irene= (Nova)

Sherlock + Jim= (Super Nova)

Jim=_ 'greater than'_ Sherlock

_Or_

Sherlock _is 'greater than' _Jim

_Or_

Sherlock=Jim

_(All three are correct) _

_And_

Sherlock = _'greater than'_ John

_But_

Sherlock + John= _'greater than'_ Sherlock

Sherlock-John= ?

Jim + (0)John= Jim

_So_

Sherlock-John= Jim

John=John

Kate=(1)John

Sally Donovan + Anderson + (sometimes)Dimmock= (1)John

Anthea= (2)John _and yet _(1)John= _'greater than'_ (1)Anthea

_(And what about)_

Moran=(1)John

_(That was true too)_

_So_

James+ Moran = Mycroft + Anthea

James= Mycroft

_And_

Mycroft = _'greater than'_ Sherlock

Mycroft+ Anthea= _'greater than' _Mycroft

_But_

Sherlock + John = _still _'_greater than'_ Mycroft + Anthea

Mycroft=James

James= _'greater than'_ Jim

_But _

Jim + (1)John= _'greater than'_ James

Jim + (0)John= Jim= (reality)

Molly=(1)John

_And so_

Jim + Molly= Jim + (1)John= _'greater than'_ James

James=Mycroft

Sherlock + John= '_greater than'_ Mycroft

Jim + Molly = _'greater than'_ Mycroft

_But_

Mycroft= _'greater than' _Sherlock

_Still_

Sherlock-John= Sherlock

_Therefore_

Jim + Molly = _'greater than'_ Sherlock

_(Jim wins)_

* * *

><p><em>The math was all there.<em>

It all added up.

It all made sense.

Jim needed a_ John_.

(All the other kids in class had one.)

Jim needed _Molly._

* * *

><p>Although he was more than fifteen years older than the majority of them, Jim managed to blend in perfectly with the university students. He was babyfaced, anyway...<p>

It was the day after his _'date'_ with Molly had been abruptly _'cancelled'._

_Like a chameleon_, he had absorbed the surrounding, official colors, donning a sweatshirt and baseball cap with the school crest.

Jim followed his fellow 'classmates' as they filed into the auditoriumesque lecture hall. At least a hundred students filled the long, curving desks, rising upwards like stairs in rows.

Ever the 'class clown', Jim popped a piece of bubble-gum into his mouth and sat down at the back corner of the classroom.

The chatter in the room subsided as the professor entered from the door at the bottom of the hall, next to the huge transparent board.

It was already filled entirely with numbers, equations, letters and other symbols, written in black marker.

…_.So very complicated, math was…_

Jim pulled out a notebook from his new backpack (also purchased at the school store) and began to take notes.

And the professor lectured.

(A_ boring_ hum that Jim tuned out.)

After a few minutes (that felt, to Jim, like hours) Jim looked up and saw a boy and girl (both in their late teens) chatting in the row below him.

The boy had his laptop open and was showing the girl a video that looked like it had much more to do with the last night's party than today's lesson.

Jim tore a blank sheet from his notebook, crumpled it up and threw the ball downwards.

It bounced against the laptop screen and rolled across the keyboard.

The boy and girl instantly turned around to see who had thrown it but the student sitting behind them was diligently taking notes.

They returned to their video viewing, continuing to whisper and snickering.

The girl even let out a laughing gasp that she had to cover with a hand.

Jim threw another paper ball.

It hit her in the back of the head.

She turned around, glared but saw no primary culprit and so bent down and picked up the notebook sheet off the floor, un-crumpling it.

It read:

_Nice ass._

_Now shut up. _

The girl pulled her jeans up, shimmying in her chair and then showed the boy the note.

He snatched it out of her hand, re-crumpled it and turned around.

"Who threw this?" he demanded in a harsh whisper.

The row behind him looked up at the ceiling or actually at the professor or down at their notes or computers or phones or Ipods or just at their twiddling thumbs.

Everyone looked like the guilty feigning innocence.

So Jim decided to briefly glance at the boy, then hurriedly look away and start to whistle.

"You threw this paper?" the boy 'deduced', pointing a finger at Jim accusingly.

"…_Yeah… problem?_" Jim stopped whistling and replied, raising an eyebrow.

"You can't talk about my girlfriend like that!" the boy hissed.

"I was talking about _you_, mate." Jim shrugged, "I've got bad aim, I guess."

He blew a pink bubble with his gum (also purchased at the school store) up until it popped and he pulled it back into his mouth.

The boy glared and growled but before he was able to speak the professor coughed very audibly causing all eyes in the room to leave the 'scene' unfolding between Jim, the boy and the girl and return to the front of the room.

A few minutes passed, again, and when the boy decided it was safe to continue his confrontation with Jim, he turned back around.

"Who are you?" he asked, "What's your name? I've never seen you around here before!"

"_That can change."_ Jim winked, leaning his chin on his knuckle and his elbow on the desk.

"That's it!" the boy snapped, "You and me have a problem now! Just wait till we get out of class,_ then_ we'll see who's got a 'nice ass'!"

"_Oooh_, I can't wait!" Jim squealed.

The boy, already red-faced in rage, blushed even more heavily when he realized that what he said had not 'come out' in the way he had meant it to.

"…Good, cause I'm gonna_ kick_ your ass!" he clarified.

"You don't even go to this school…" Another student a couple seats down from Jim piped up, looking up from his phone.

"Yeah, you don't even go here." The girl agreed.

The three glared at Jim, in anger, suspicion and _confusion_.

"…So_?" _Jim replied.

"_Excuse me, do you four in the back have something to share with the class?" _

The professor had suddenly joined the conversation, addressing those interrupting his class with a shout from below.

The boy and girl returned to forward position, looking down at their desk sheepishly, unsure of whether to 'share with the class' their argument with the _'new kid'_ behind them.

The third student swiftly stashed his phone in the pocket of his khakis and looked up at the professor, shaking his head 'no'.

Jim, however, smiled and stood up, raising his hand.

"_Actually, _I_ do."_ He declared.

Professor James Moriarty narrowed his eyes, glaring at his brother.

"_Go on_…" he allowed, through gritted teeth.

"_Well _what I'd like to _share_," Jim stated, "isn't really meant for the whole class. It's just meant for _you, professor_…so if you'd like to speak more _privately_ in your office—"

"_No._ You'll say it here." James responded curtly, trying to call what he _hoped_ was a bluff.

"Alright, then." Jim shrugged, "_I always did like an audience_…"

He stretched out his arms, turning left and right and then back towards James, making sure all in the room were watching him.

"Quickly, _please._" James added, rolling his eyes, "You're wasting valuable class time."

Seconds (that felt, to James and the class, like minutes (that felt, to James and the class, like hours)) past.

Finally, Jim sucked in a deep breath (everyone else held theirs) as if he were preparing to give a long monologue as if the silent, anticipating lecture hall was a theater.

"_Fuck you_." He said.

There were several jaw-droppings and gasps as the students looked at Jim, then around the room at each other shocked and confused, and finally to their professor.

"I believe, _sir_, that it's time for you to leave now." James told, "Security is already on its way to escort you out."

And as if the lecture hall _was_ a theater and as if this 'scene' unfolding _was_ a play…

… _as if on cue_ Sebastian Moran entered the room from the lower door, marched past James up the stairs all the way to Jim.

Jim tossed his notebook into his backpack and his backpack over his shoulder before Moran grabbed both his shoulders and began to push him out of the room.

"This way, _sir_." Moran muttered.

His face was lacking facial expression as usual, but Jim could see his brow already furrowing in frustration.

(And the _'sir'_ was the bit of sarcasm Moran did allow himself to use when dealing with Jim.)

"_Of course_." Jim smirked, "But just one _more_ thing…"

With two fingers, Jim removed the gum from his mouth and placed it under the desk.

Moran (and everybody) watched him but did not stop him.

"…_there_…" Jim twisted his fingers under the table, securing the gum and breathed.

"Ready to go, now?" Moran inquired, deliberately _not_ raising an eyebrow, "_Sir._"

"Mmm-hmm." Jim nodded, grinning.

He let Moran lead him out of the classroom.

* * *

><p>Moran closed the two lecture hall doors behind him with thud.<p>

It was louder than he had hoped it would be (and he hoped it didn't further disrupt his employer's teaching) but at least it had a finalizing _effect._

Jim seemed to be the type into _symbols_ and the like and _so_ if slamming doors _'symbolized'_ to Jim that he was _not _supposed to be interacting like this with Professor James Moriarty (_especially in person_) and sent him the _'message' _that it (whatever _'it'_ was—the (_not very_) brotherly relationship?) was _over_, then things would go _smoothly._

"_Fascinating_ lecture, huh?" Jim commented and then dissolved into snickers.

He _didn't _get the 'message'.

Things could continue to go _not_ smoothly.

…_unless_ Moran made things more _clear._

(Simple, straight-forward, easy-to-understand-_Not_ that overly complicated bullshit that James_ and_ Jim Moriarty _both_ seemed to fertilize their lives with.)

He drew his fist back and then punched Jim in the face.

Jim was knocked to the floor (as Moran knew he would be, seeing as it had happened before when his employer had paid a failing student to attack Jim at a bar on Valentine's Day).

_Too easy. _

That guy's punch had, being instructed by the professor to do so, avoided Jim's nose and teeth…but Moran was not so _loving._

Jim stood up from the floor, stroking his bloody nose.

"Whatwas _that_ for?!" he exclaimed.

"You know the rules." Moran stated.

He was careful not to allow his _burning, boiling_ rage_ bubble_ to the surface of his face (although he had allowed one _eruption_ in the form that punch—only to deliver a message, though, _definitely_ just to deliver a message…).

But the constant trouble that Jim was causing for his employer was really beginning to bother him.

(…And wasn't that the _point.._?)

James Moriarty was always so proper, so professional (so _perfect_)…

…he had worked so hard to build himself up from nothing; always diligent, always careful.

(…always so proper, always so professional, (always so perfect…))

He deserved better than a _mosquito _(constantly _biting _at him, _sucking his blood_ and leaving him _itching)_ for a little brother.

"Rules?" Jim repeated, "Thought he said this isn't a _game._"

"It _isn't_." Moran affirmed, almost snarling but remaining calm.

"Then why woul—"

"I'm not going to speak to you in_ symbols, _I'm going to tell you what to do straight out and you're going to do it. Stay away from your brother. Don't do_ anything_ that might damage the name he's unlucky enough to have to share with you and don't commit anymore crimes and then expect him to come and cover them up for you. Just do what your told and stay away from my employer, Jim...or I'll do _more_ than punch you next time."

('Jim' because Jim didn't deserve to be called 'sir' despite who his brother was.)

Moran looked at Jim, his expressionless face trying to find expression that symbolized meaning in Jim's.

Moran hoped Jim finally understood…

(…but also, part of him hoped that Jim _didn't_… so that he'd be allowed to _punch_ him again…)

"You know…" Jim started, smiling and sighing, "…that's what I've been doing. All this time …I've been staying away from my brother, James Moriarty…_in fact_, today has been the first time I've seen him in, _hmm_, how long was it again?...oh yeah! _Twenty years_….Twenty years, _almost exactly_, that I haven't seen my brother in _person_…although I've never been that great at remembering dates and numbers…"

* * *

><p>Even <em>James <em>had a _John._

_Sebastian Moran. _

And yet, he _still _wanted to prevent Jim from having one of his own.

_Molly Hooper. _

Not to mention he also wanted to prevent Jim from having his _equal._

_Sherlock Holmes._

But James should have _known better_, being a _math _teacher and all…

As long as Sherlock Holmes had John Watson then Jim Moriarty would need Molly Hooper.

_After all, the math was all there. _

And mathematical _equations_ need to be _balanced._

* * *

><p><em>So that was your ultimate revenge? <em>

_Disrupting my class?_

_Congratulations, you've succeeded! _

_I could not get my students to focus for the remaining 45 minutes after that scene you caused._

_Thank you for that. _

**####**

_Oh you're so very welcome, brother. _

**####**

_You know the rules._

_And you know that anybody could be monitoring these conversations. _

_The message you just sent has already been permanently and completely deleted. _

**####**

_Are you ashamed to be my brother, James? _

**####**

_That one too. _

**####**

_I'm going to kill you, Abel. _

_-Cain _

**####**

_How's your nose? _

**####**

_Hurts._

_Kiss it and make me feel all better? _

**####**

_Moran told me he probably broke it. _

**####**

_Don't worry._

_I'm on my way to the hospital. _

**####**

_You know the rules. _

**####**

_I'm injured, am I not allowed to go to the hospital? _

**####**

_There is a more than sufficient private medical facility at one of my contact's headquarters. _

_I'm sending Moran to give you a ride._

**####**

_Don't brother._

_I know a mob doctor and a plastic surgeon that can patch me up good as new. _

_I can take care of myself, you know. _

**####**

_That one too._

**####**

_It was a typo. _

_I meant 'don't BOTHER'! not 'don't brother' _

_I swear! _

_Damn that autocorrect!_

**####**

_And that one, as well. _

_You need to stop playing games now. _

**####**

_...oh brother. _

**####**

…

**####**

_What?_

'_oh brother' ?_

_It's just an expression! _

**####**

_This conversation is over. _

**####**

_You're the one who texted me. _

**####**

_And you're the one who illegally attended my class without enrolling. _

_I hope you learned your lesson today. _

**####**

_As a matter of fact, I really enjoyed your lesson today…_

…_and I think I have some contacts of my own that would really enjoy it as well…_

**####**

…

_No. _

_Don't do it. _

_You know the rules. _

…

(several minutes and a missed call later)

_..._

_Answer my call immediately. _

…

_Where are you?_

…

_No more games. I will find you. _

_If you do this, there will be consequences._

…

…

_I'm warning you…_

**####**

_No, brother._

_...I warned you._

* * *

><p>Jim was never good with remembering numbers…<p>

…_that's why he had to write them down._

Sitting in the back of the cab he typed the long sequence of digits (that he had copied into his notebook from the transparent board) into his smartphone.

Once he was finished, he saved the data and then opened the text messaging application.

He texted:

_What do you call a door that can be unlocked by any key?_

_A whore. _

_But what do you call a key that can unlock any door…? _

_Give up?_

_I'll tell you. _

…_It's access to all the money, information and anything else you could ever want for in this shitty little world._

_Infinite power, omnipotence. _

_Godhood. _

_Now who wants the key to the city? _

And sent it to every single contact in his phone, including the unnamed number of James Moriarty.

And when the message was sent, Jim chuckled as he slipped his phone into the front pocket of his new university sweatshirt.

Jim then ripped the page with the copied down numbers out of his notebook, crumpled it into a ball, pressed the button to open the window beside him, and threw the paper outside.

He watched it bounce on the street, rolling between tired before falling into the sewer.

The light then turned and the cab sped away, towards St. Bartholomew's hospital.

* * *

><p>Professor James Moriarty read the text message.<p>

Although class was long over and he was now alone, James was in his lecture hall, standing in front of the clear board decorated with little black numbers.

Only moments before, he had had been going over these numbers, again and again, carefully making sure they were _right._

And they were.

The equation was _perfect._

It was just a slight variation on the _second_ perfect equation that James had already '_composed'._

_The first solution. _

The 'second perfect equation' was the solution to the _first problem_.

The 'first problem' was the _PICA equation._

The 'PICA equation' was the_ first perfect equation _that James had patented.

This 'first perfect equation' created the code that all the PICA security systems, cameras, and connected computers used.

This was what had made James his first million when he was just twenty-one and computers were only just taking off.

He then had invested that money strategically in the greater security and technology industries, and managed his small, but wealthy and powerful PICA company which contracted privately to other corporations and often even for the British government.

(James spent his _'spare time' _consulting as an economist for banking firms on the side.)

The 'first solution' was the _reflection_ to the 'first problem'.

The 'first solution' was the _solution _to the 'first problem'.

This 'second perfect equation' created the code that James used to hack all PICA security systems, cameras and connected computers from anywhere at any time.

This is what had allowed James to spy on whoever he wanted (Jim) and collected and/or delete any data he chose.

(And it helped that through his connections he was able to market his PICA products all over the UK, making most technology in the country _accessible_ to him.)

And now, after almost exactly twenty years work, James had finally finished the _third perfect equation_.

The 'third perfect equation' was just a slight variation on the 'second perfect equation'.

The only thing it did differently was that instead of just being able to access PICA connected tech, now James was able to hack _any_ kind of computerized device _anywhere._

Now_ that_ was _power._

And now _it _was _worthless. _

James re-read the mass text he had received from his brother by no accident.

'Godhood', _indeed._

And_ everyone_ would want to claim it.

And when everyone had _something_… that _something _became _nothing._

Jim had _been_ in his classroom that afternoon, Jim had _seen_ the board, _seen_ the _numbers_…

And there was no doubt in James's mind that Jim had copied them all down.

_The perfect equation. _

And now_ Jim_ had it.

And now it was _worthless._

Twenty years of labor, twenty years of _life_…now _worthless._

There was no way to undo what had been done….

…but James _could _restore _balance._

He would have his 'ultimate revenge' on Jim Moriarty.

If his brother wanted a_ war_…then there would be a _war._

* * *

><p><strong>WELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL...<strong>

**I hope that wasn't _too_ convoluted and confusing...lol.**

**If you have any questions, just ask lol and I'll explain... :)**

**Sorry lol. **

**And about James...**

**Somebody had guessed I was gonna use Colonel James Moriarty and I had said they were right but then I decided that Professor just worked better. lol. **

**My fault, I still consider you right (because you were and are). **

**And as for the university he works for...**

**Well, Wikipedia told me Leeds but I decided that was too far away from London and so I went with the university of 'having no name other than university'.**

**lol.**

** Again, if you need any explainations ask and I shall explain! **


	20. Escape

**New chapter night again! :)**

**Not much to explain now...lol**

**Again, thanks for all the reviews!**

**This story is _my_ _life_ and the reviews are it's lifeblood, the reader's the heart pumping that blood. Without you guys this story (and I) would not survive...**

**Hyperbole?**

**No.**

**Metaphor.**

**_Kind of_... lol**

**As always, I hope you like it! **

* * *

><p>After the driver (<em>Sebastian…?<em> That was his name, right? (Molly was never good at remembering names)) had dropped Molly off in front of her apartment building (she had left from work early and so would look stupid going right back) she went inside, went up the stairs, went into her apartment and went to bed.

Nevermind that it was the middle of a cold and cloudy afternoon.

Molly was _tired_ and whether this James person (who supposedly was Jim's brother) was going to be "speaking to" Jim "soon" or _not_…

…Molly knew Jim would be _mad_ at her for not meeting him at the airport like she had promised and she knew he would probably try to 'get back' at her in some way for that… probably in manner that involved seeing her in _person_….

…which, _in turn_, Molly knew would make _James mad_ and she knew that he would probably try to 'get back' at her in some way for that… probably in a manner that involved _killing her._

_God. _

It was all too much.

And Molly was _tired._

She locked the door to her flat and even closed the door on Toby, shutting herself _alone_ in her bedroom with the lights off.

She then wrapped and _trapped_ herself tightly in her blankets, curling up into a ball to be as small as possible and _completely surrounded._

She wanted to be _alone._

Maybe if Molly became as tiny and as quiet as she could be, even tinier and quieter than she had ever been before, she could cease to exist—not _die_—but simply _disappear _as if she had never even been there at all.

All her problems (Jim. Sherlock. Jim. Fear. Jim. Indecision. Jim. Being Alive. Jim. Possibly Dying. Sherlock Alone. Sherlock. Jim. Sherlock. Jim. Sherlock. Jim.) would be _gone._

_Molly _would be gone.

_She would escape._

* * *

><p>The next day no one asked Molly why she had left her shift early, in fact, <em>no one had even noticed that she had gone.<em>

It was this that she no longer resented as much anymore and had now come to count on ever since she had met Jim Moriarty.

Because she was so _invisible_, Molly had no trouble_ disappearing_ into a crowd or _escaping_ work for a cold, cloudy afternoon like the one yesterday…

…and the one _today._

Molly was on break, walking through the white hospital halls, away from the cafeteria where she had found nothing satisfactory to eat.

She was on her way to the best vending machine (much better than the one in the basement where she worked) and in order to get there she had to take an elevator up to the first floor.

And then she stepped off the elevator, Molly saw Jim (dressed very strangely in some university sweatshirt) walk out of the double doors leading back to the treatment rooms, a fresh bandage over his nose.

She wanted to run…

_(Away_ from him…or_ towards_ him?)

…but she froze.

If he saw her he'd be_ mad_ …and if _she_ saw _him_ then _James_ would be _mad_.

And _kill her._

…maybe that was okay…?

No.

It wasn't.

But Jim would be mad _too_, and he would be mad _first._

_He'd _kill her.

…was _that _okay?

"Molly."

Molly was shaken from her thoughts by Jim, already standing in front of her, clutching her arm sharply.

"_Molly." _He repeated and she realized his voice was only a whisper.

This was_ strange_ because Jim usually tried to make himself as big and as loud as possible.

She looked up, startled, into his face.

His expression was…it was…almost_ serious_…

…_urgent_, even.

This was _strange_ because Jim usually mocked every single extreme emotion on his constantly animated and changing face as if he never actually felt any of them himself.

"J-Jim…!" was all Molly could choke out, still shocked to see him and to see him like this and to see him after what James had said yesterday.

Molly studied Jim's face as he studied hers.

He seemed to have noticed that he was acting strange and his furrowed brow softened.

"_They're watching_." He smiled, still whispering, and gesturing to a security camera by tilting his head in its direction, "We can't stay here."

* * *

><p>"Who's <em>'they'<em>?" Molly asked.

They were on the sidewalk, now, practically running away from St. Bartholomew's, pushing past people as they hurried.

And Jim, just like on Valentine's Day, had not let go of her arm. His fingers were clenched around her upper, nails digging in through her labcoat all the way into her skin.

"You've met them." Jim told her, not turning back to look at her as he pulled her along.

"You mean that man?" Molly asked, "J_ames? _Is he _really_ your brother?"

"Yes he is." Jim confirmed, "_Although I'm never supposed to say that_…but it's not just him. He has…people working for him-"

"Somebody named Sebastian?"

"That's_ one_ of them. _Number_ one, actually. _He's a sniper_. Definitely militarily trained and probably fresh out of Afghanistan too…he almost _shot_ you once, too."

"_What? When_?"

"The day you decided to 'set me up' on a 'date' with _Detective Inspector Lestrade_. But don't worry about it, cupid. _I saved you_…"

Despite the chilly air, Molly felt her skin warm.

Yes, it was only just a few days ago that she had been _stupid _enough to try to stage an ambush arrest on Jim Moriarty.

_Of course,_ he would have been too _smart_ to be caught in a mouse's mousetrap.

Molly had predicted that.

(…and maybe that was why she had gone ahead with the plan in the first place, because she _knew_ that it wouldn't_ work_…)

But almost being _shot?_

Molly did _not _predict _that._

Despite her warm skin, Molly felt herself shiver.

"-Thank you!" she exclaimed, and the added in a mumble, "…and…_I'm sorry…_."

"All is forgiven." Jim replied, "And I _too_ am sorry for standing both you and Mr. Lestrade _up_…but I just _knew_ it wouldn't _work out_."

"Your brother…_James_…" Molly began, "…why does he want to kill me?"

"Because he never lets me have any fun…" Jim explained "…and he never lets me have what I _want_."

And finally he looked back at her, stopping and turning around to face her, still not releasing her arm.

Before Molly could speak, his other hand wrapped around her other arm and then both his hands started to pull off her labcoat.

In the middle of the street.

"Jim—_What the_-what are you _doing_?" she squeaked.

Passersby were already staring, some had even come to a complete halt to watch.

"They're watching_, remember_?" Jim said.

(Yes they _were_!)

"I don't—"

"The labcoat's too recognizable. _Too white._ Nothing else is that _pure _in this city….you've gotta ditch it."

"Oh." Molly nodded, "I can—"

"No. _Allow me_." And like 'Jim from IT' had done for her on their second date, Jim swept (gracefully, this time, not awkwardly) behind her and removed her coat.

He folded it carefully over one arm and then tossed it over his shoulder to the pavement behind him (where it certainly wouldn't be 'too white' and 'that pure' in an hour after being trampled).

Molly turned to watch this, gaping in shock, eyes and mouth wide.

Jim loved it when she did that. It really _did _have a certain charm.

_(She _really did have a certain charm.)

Next, Jim tore the bandage from the top of his nose and flung it aside to the sidewalk as well.

On the inside it was a little bloody and now it was just lying there on the ground (_definitely not sanitary_) leaving Jim's slightly red, slightly blue (purple-ly bruised) nose exposed.

"I think you'll be more noticeable now, than before…" Molly commented, pointing at his nose.

"…I _know_..." Jim sighed, "But it was _cramping my style_."

"…aren't you hurt, though?" Molly asked, inching closer to him.

"'_Beauty is pain'_, they say." Jim shrugged.

But the injury (most likely a broken nose) was less than beautiful.

Molly raised her fingers as if to touch his face but _didn't,_ instead stopping short and running them through her hair and pulling it back into a ponytail with the tie she kept around her wrist.

And Jim watched her (in _fascination _or just _amusement_?), smirking.

"Less recognizable?" Molly inquired.

"Darling, you're _invisible_." He grinned, looking her up and down.

(And what if she_ was_ invisible? (Because she, indeed, _was_ invisible.)…What if she was just a _ghost_ that only_ he_ could _see_…?)

Molly smiled sadly at this (but not as sadly as she would have a year ago).

(Because what if she _was_ invisible? (And she _was_ invisible.) And what if she was a _ghost_ that only he could see?...And what if him seeing her meant that she _wasn't _a ghost and that him seeing her meant was now, _finally alive.._?)

"But they're still _watching_, remember." She reminded.

"Yes, they are." Jim agreed.

And there _was _another security camera, right above them, just like there was on almost every corner in London.

Their heads turned and glanced at it… and it turned and _stared _at them.

Jim and Molly looked back to each other and nodded.

They began to walk again.

As they walked (ran, practically) Molly and Jim attempted to enroll in the school of fish that swam down the crowded sidewalks…

…but it was the middle of the day and it was cold and so the sidewalks weren't actually crowded.

Molly, who could always _feel _when she was being _watched_, could tell that the cameras were following her and Jim.

Tall buildings (mostly office space and storefronts) surrounded them and even those_ without_ cameras still seem as if they were _watching _them.

Molly was back to shivering, now, and Jim finally understood why the_ Cyclops had a million eyes._

And, although most other people on the street had ceased watching Molly and Jim's _strange_ behavior, one man on the street, they noticed, had started to follow them.

Whenever they crossed a street, he crossed the street right after them.

Whenever they turned a corner, he turned the same corner.

He wasn't even trying to be subtle about it.

Molly, who could always_ feel_ when she was being _watched_, looked back at the man and then forwards at Jim who was a few steps a head of her.

She quickened her pace so that she was matching his strides.

"What do we do?" She whispered urgently.

The man was getting closer, also quickening his pace.

"_Escape._" Jim stated.

* * *

><p>They passed the entrance to the tube and Jim pulled Molly into the mouth of the cave.<p>

They took the escalator stairs two at a time, weaving around those in their way, the man attempting to keep up with them.

"We're not going to be buying tickets, _are we_?" Molly guessed once they reached the bottom.

She rushed towards the automated gates.

"We're not going to be _riding_." Jim corrected, snatching Molly's wrist and stopping her.

From their steadily elevating vantage point standing on the up-escalator, they watched the man race towards the turnstiles, hop one and dash into the distance in the direction he believed Jim and Molly had gone.

* * *

><p>They had to get to somewhere where the fish were packed like sardines.<p>

Somewhere busy and crowded where it would be easy to blend in and difficult to be found.

Jim knew just the place.

But_ first_ they had to_ escape_ their new (and old (the cameras)) pursuers.

A few blocks later, it was actually Molly who noticed the taxi, passing by many (disgruntled) possible customers with furiously hands, in favor of driving slowly by the curb behind her and Jim.

"The taxi…" she commented, worriedly, trying to point to the cab in a way that looked like she was scratching her ear.

"Mmm-hmm." Jim acknowledged, "_Let's get in_."

Molly _would_ have gasped; her eyes and mouth_ would_ have opened wide…

…if she hadn't been _expecting_ something like _this._

Now_ this_ was the Jim she _knew._

Running away had been_ strange_, coming from him. Walking right up to danger an introducing himself was more like him.

Molly watched Jim approach the cab, but as he bent slightly over to knock on the driver's side window, the vehicle sped away into the traffic.

Jim turned and shrugged at Molly, wearing his best confused face.

"Guess he didn't wanna give us a ride."

"Maybe his orders were only to follow us….?" Molly speculated.

"I know where they won't follow us." Jim declared.

* * *

><p>Before they had even turned the corner onto the correct street, Molly knew <em>exactly <em>where they were.

"No!" she squeaked, "Not _here_…!"

Scotland Yard loomed ahead of them.

"Why not?" Jim inquired, chuckling, "Safest place in the city, I'd say."

"The police'll catch us!" Molly cried, "We'll get away from your brother's men, just to get arrested!"

"We won't be _arrested_." Jim scoffed, "And even if we _are_, it's much easier to escape the police, anyway."

"I'm_ not_ going in there."

Molly came to a halt, practically stomping one foot on the pavement for effect.

"Don't be such a _chicken_, Molly. You aren't even wanted for any crimes!"

"I _will_ be, once they see _me_ with _you!_"

"Who's _'they'_?" Jim asked, stopping, turning around and facing her with an accusing, skeptical look.

"What do you mean, 'who's they'? The_ police_, of course!"

"And what have _'they' _ever done for you?"

"_Huh?_"

"_You heard me._ What have _'they'_… ever done for _you?_ Are _'they' _your_ friends_, Molly? Do _'they'_ even _know _you…?"

Molly thought of Lestrade (good intentions, but condescending even if he didn't mean to be…_friendly_, but never really a _friend_)…

…and then she thought of Sherlock (not even a police officer, but still one of the _'they'_ she knew Jim had meant (because Jim knew Sherlock was one of the _'they'_ she had meant)).

Molly shook her head.

"So why do you _care _what _'they'_ think of you?" Jim inquired.

"…Because they might arrest me…?" Molly tried.

But Jim wasn't stupid.

"Don't you give me that _bullshit_!" he snapped, "That's not why you _care_. And _'they'_ is more than just the police. _'They'_ is _everyone_…And you _cared_ what _'they' _think of you before you even met me! And I want to know _why._ I want to know _why_ you always do everything _'they'_ expect of you, just to_ please_ them…even though they treat you like a _bug_. They just _step on you_…that is_, if they even notice you at all_."

"I don't—"

"Yes you _do_. And you always _have_. You're always such a _good little girl_…you always follow all the rules—"

"_No, I don't_! I've broken the rules before! I've snuck Sherlock body parts out of the morgue—"

"And what has he ever done for you? _Nothing._ If you're a _bug_ to everyone else, Molly, you're not even an _amoeba_ to him. And still you break the rules for him to get him to_ like_ you…just like you do _everything _to get _everyone else_ to _like_ you. You do it to try to be _normal_…why?"

"…I don't…_know_…" Molly admitted, she had never actually wondered herself why she always did that.

(But wasn't 'try to be _normal_' and 'try to be _liked_' just what people _do_?)

Jim laughed at her answer.

"Do you think _Sherlock _cares what anyone thinks of him, if anyone _likes_ him? _No!_ He'd never be that _stupid_…if he_ cared_, then he would be _normal._ Just like _everybody else_, all too busy _caring_ about what everybody else thinks to do anything_ important_…to _be _anything important. If Sherlock _cared_…he would be _nothing_…!"

Molly considered Jim's statement and considered the fact that he wasn't just talking about Sherlock Holmes, but also about _himself._

And Jim was _right_, what he had said was _true._

"You're not a_ bug_, Molly. Stop acting like one." Jim added, before she could even speak, "…Imagine what you could be if you just. didn't. _care_."

And Molly _did._

She thought of all the things she would finally be able to do, that she had been wishing forever she _could _do, but hadn't done because she _cared_ too much what people thought about her.

And then she thought of _Jim._

_He _didn't seem to_ care_ about anyone's opinion of him; _he_ just seemed to do whatever he _wanted_ to.

And he seemed _happy_...

_Free. _

"I would _escape_." Molly realized.

"And do you _want_ to?" Jim asked, "…_Escape_?"

"_Yes_." Molly said, firmly, with a single nod.

And Jim didn't ask her if she was _'sure'_.

* * *

><p>Ten minutes later, they were speeding down the road in a 'borrowed' police car.<p>

(And _no_, hot-wiring was too _'low-class'_ for Jim. _That _was why he had _pick-pocketed _the keys from a police officer. _How_ _Classy_.)

Jim maneuvered the vehicle around the other vehicles (cutting many of them off and causing many of them to honk) on the street, and around the streets of London (Left turn. Right turn. U-turn.) as if it was a maze, never continuing straight and never stopping for the lights.

He wasn't even wearing a seatbelt.

Molly, herself, was tightly buckled and clutched the sides of her seat, squinting her eyes each time she thought the car was going to crash into something in front of them.

When she re-opened her eyes after Jim had narrowly avoided tour bus (by driving on the sidewalk) she caught a glimpse of the rear-view mirror.

Now there were _three_ black cars right behind them, positioned amongst the vehicles of other colors, joining the first one that had appeared five minutes earlier.

"Jim, there's _four _of them, now…!" Molly informed, turning to him quickly and then all the way around to look through the back window at the black vehicles.

Four cars were _not_ a coincidence.

When the police car turned, the black cars turned.

When the police car ran a red light, the black cars ran the same light.

They were _following_ them.

"Good." Jim grinned, "Finally I get to use _this_."

He had been tapping at buttons and flipping switches that normal cars didn't have with his free hand, the entire trip so far.

Now, he had finally found the _siren._

The police car wailed and flashed its lights, causing all other cars (except the four) to 'make way' for Jim and Molly.

It was also then that Scotland Yard realized it was missing a car, and stated the license plate over the radio.

"Now there's going to be even_ more_ people chasing us…" Molly groaned, sinking down in her seat.

"I've never been on_ this _end of a police chase before." Jim commented.

(But then again, how often was the _police car_ the one being chased?)

The black cars were soon joined by police cars in pursuit of the stolen (borrowed) vehicle.

It was a fine for a while, as Jim continued his 'normal' driving which left most of the other police cars far behind ( although not quite losing the black ones) but all that changed when a helicopter appeared, sputtering and hovering in the air above them.

Molly glanced up, saw it and then threw her face into her hands.

_It was all over…_

(Fun while it lasted?)

"Oh _god_…" she murmured, "They're going to_ catch _us. We're going to jail, we're both going to jail…"

"Don't be stupid, Molly." Jim muttered, rolling his eyes.

The police car screeched to a stop, in the middle of the road, sending Molly rushing forwards and then back, her seatbelt s_trangling_ her.

(And, of course, Jim was unaffected by whiplash.)

The cars behind them were also forced to come to a sudden, uncomfortable halt, slamming their breaks and slamming into one another, causing a pile up of vehicles on the street, pyramid shaped, with the police vehicle at the very top.

Siren and lights still blaring, Jim jumped out of the car, not bothering to close the door or take the keys out of the ignition.

"You coming or what?" He asked Molly, poking his head back inside.

"Y-yes!" She replied, struggling with her seatbelt and then finally managing to climb out of the car.

Molly hurried after Jim, dodging speeding cars, across the street towards the sidewalk.

It was as if he _just knew_ when and where the vehicles would appear and so was _effortlessly_ able to avoid them (and always by just _a hair_ the blew in the wind as they whipped by him).

Molly wasn't so coordinated…

…but, still, she _made it._

At this point, police officers and men in black suits were getting out of their respective cars, unmoving in the traffic of successive crashes, and marching through the honking mass towards where Jim and Molly stood.

"They didn't stay to exchange insurance information." Jim noted, "_How rude_."

Molly watched the men approach and accidently locked eyes with one, who glared accusingly. So did the cop she saw when she tried to look away from the suited man.

_Yep._ So they were definitely as 'out to get' her as they were Jim, perhaps _more_…

Now _how to escape_?

Molly scanned the sidewalk (noticing the camera watching her and Jim) until she saw a well-dressed, older and overweight woman walking several dogs (each with their own diamond studded collar and gold chain leash).

She sprinted up to the woman.

"Oh my gosh, they're _so cute_!" she squealed, concealing her nervousness as best she could, "May I pet them?"

"…I _suppose _you can…" The lady sniffed, lifting an eyebrow and her nose at Molly disapprovingly.

"Thank you!" Molly beamed and bent down to stroke each of the dog's reddish-brown fur in turn, adding, "…They're my favorite breed!"

(In truth Molly was a complete cat-person and had no idea the official breed name of the wiener-shaped dogs.)

"Oh, _really_?" The woman exclaimed, disapproval dissolving, "Dachshunds really are the superior breed of terrier. Mine are _purebreds_, you know…"

"That's nice." Molly forced a smile as the little beasts bit at her fingers.

As she and the lady 'chatted' Molly kept glancing away from her and the dogs, over to where she and Jim's_ followers_ were getting closer.

Jim watched Molly 'play' with the dachshunds.

He knew that Molly was not a dog-person and he knew that she was in severe distress at the moment on account of being chase… and so he _knew _where she was going with this.

Shoving his hands into his sweatshirt pocket and turning his head to look down at the sidewalk, he walked quickly to where Molly bent.

"Excuse me." He growled as he bumped into the well-dressed overweight woman.

The woman let out a gasp of shock and annoyance as she fell backwards onto the pavement, Jim having knocked her down with his jabbing elbow.

She threw both her hands up in alarm…

…and then realized she had let go of her dog leashes.

"No!" she shrilled, attempting to stand back up, "_My babies_!"

Molly, Jim and the lady all watched as the dachshunds _escaped_, their gold chains jingling as they beat against the concrete, trailing behind them.

They tiny reddish-brown dogs ran into the road, their barks joining the chorus of the honking cars still trapped in the traffic jam.

Molly concealed her laughter discretely with a hand over her mouth.

Jim didn't bother.

Finally the woman was up and chasing after her 'babies' that ran free and away from her as she followed them into the street where the vehicles (that were actually able to move through the pile-up) had to stop and swerve to miss them.

This was a nice enough diversion to keep the police officers and suited men from reaching the sidewalk that Molly and Jim hurried away down.

Thundering above the beeping and barking and shouting and her own pounding heart, Molly could still hear the helicopter as she and Jim walked (ran, practically).

She gazed up at the sky (_blue_, for once).

_It was still following them. _

"We've got to find cover!" she declared.

"We already have." Jim stated, "…we're _here_."

* * *

><p>"I come here all the time." Jim said as he and Molly strolled through the crowded halls of King's Cross train station, trying their best too look like a <em>normal<em> couple.

(_Normal?_ Never! But _were_ they a _'couple'_…?)

His arm was around her shoulders and her head was leaning next to his neck (in between his head and shoulder as if it was the missing piece of a puzzle, finally found).

"They won't find us in here." Molly decided.

_This really was the perfect place to hide. _

Everywhere Molly looked she could see people, people and more people (mostly businessmen and women, probably on their way to a meeting or something else _important_) for her and Jim to disappear amongst.

"I know I promised I wouldn't steal you away…" Jim mused, staring up at the ceiling (counting the cameras as they walked), "….but would you _object_, much, if I _did_?

Molly's breath hitched.

And she knew he had felt it, he was holding her closer now.

(Afraid that she would try to run? _No._ They were _past that_ now…)

"Not _too _much." Molly teased, nestling into him.

"I _see_." Jim smirked, "_So_…if I took you away, you wouldn't try to _escape_…?"

"I doubt that I'd even be _able_ to." Molly responded.

"That's not what I asked." Jim reminded.

Jim's fingers started to twirl the hair hanging out of her ponytail, lightly at first, but then there were sharp tugs that Molly couldn't say didn't hurt.

(…could this just be his way of being_ 'romantic'_?)

Molly winced at particularly painful pull.

She turned to Jim and saw him remove his arm from around her shoulders, a long strand of her copper hair dancing between his fingers.

He brought it to eye level, examined it (maybe even breathed it in) and then put it into his pocket.

"…no." Molly answered his question, "I wouldn't."

Jim grinned fully but then the grin faded.

"…is that because you _want_ me to _have you_…or because you'd be too _afraid_ not to _let me_?"

(They were really the _same thing_, by now.)

"….I don't…. _know.._." Molly admitted (and she was _allowed_ to, in fact _encouraged_ to, because Jim _liked_ being the '_smart one'_).

Jim laughed at her answer, but not _too_ cruelly.

"And what if I took you and locked you away in a _tower_ somewhere?" he chuckled, "Somewhere, f_ar away from everyone_, where I was the only person you ever saw…_who ever saw you_?"

And what if he_ didn't _and things just stayed the way they were now?

And what if she was an invisible _ghost_ that only _he_ could _see_?

(They were all the _same thing_, really.)

Ah, hypotheticals…

But before Molly could think of and then give a reply, Jim wasn't looking (_seeing_) her anymore and instead was looking right past her (right _through_ her) around the populous hall.

She tried to follow his gaze, but her eyes were unable to keep up as his darted around the room.

Now they were standing still, on the platform, while everyone else was milling around like herd of cattle.

"What do you see?" she asked.

"Nothing _important_." Jim shrugged, turning back to her, rolling his eyes.

(_Did that include her_? Did that statement mean she was _important_ to him or _not_? It was always _tempting _to analyze (not _over_-analyze there was no 'over-analyze' with Jim) everything he said, everything he did for the deeper meaning that was always there…but Molly knew that if she _did _her head would probably _explode_.)

"Oh." Molly said.

There was silence between for a few moments as they listened to the hum of other people's conversations.

Finally, the train pulled into the platform, gaining everyone's attention to its slow and steady approach.

"Are we going to get on?" Molly inquired, watching the locomotive slow to a halt.

They didn't have tickets or passes but Jim had easily gotten them past the first lines of defense (ticket takers, metal detectors) and she guessed he could just as easily get them on to the train.

Jim didn't answer her question, instead looking past Molly again as the train's opening doors and the crowd in the room.

She saw him glance over at a security camera on the wall, 'trained' (ha, ha) on them.

Jim wasn't even facing her anymore and looked as if he was going to move very soon.

(Did this mean they were boarding the train?)

"_Jim_…?" She called, tapping him on the back of his shoulder, to get his attention.

He actually startled at this, (which was _strange_, for him), jerking at her touch and turning swiftly around in her direction.

He had that serious, _urgent_ even, expression on his face.

_Worry. _

He removed his hand from his pocket, but instead of holding her hair, it was holding his phone.

With his free hand he grabbed her wrist and then placed the smartphone into her open palm, then clamping her other hand over it to enclose it inside.

"Here," he said, staring into her eyes, "Take this."

"What-_why_!" Molly asked, his _nervousness_ mirrored tenfold on her own face now.

Jim only smiled.

"Why?" Molly repeated, louder, more desperately, "_Why_ are you giving me this?"

They heard the breaks of the train screech and then sigh.

It had finally stopped, its doors opening.

"Keep it _safe_." Jim told her, pressing her top hand down on the phone.

He was still looking seriously, _urgently_ into her eyes.

But she looked past him.

All around them, she could see everyone else staring at them.

(And they weren't even being _not normal_!)

Molly and Jim were _surrounded. _

Suddenly, all other people on the platform moved towards them in masse, like a _stampede._

Closing in on all sides, there was _no escape._

"Oh my g—" Molly started to cry but was interrupted.

By Jim's lips on her own.

During the kiss (quicker than normal (_normal?_! It was normal to kiss Jim Moriarty now? More serious, more _urgent_ that normal) Molly could feel Jim bring his hands around her waist… at the same time slipping his phone into her back pocket.

Then his hands were on both her shoulders and the kiss was over, his lips now to her ear.

Past his head she could see the herd (of almost a hundred people) only a foot away from them now, men in black suits now leading the charge.

"Don't worry…" Jim whispered, "They won't touchyou. They only want_ me_."

"But—"Molly tried to talk again, but couldn't muster the words, nor her voice.

Jim eyes were boring into hers, again, but, again, she looked past him at the surrounding crowd.

Two men, black suited, stepped out from it.

"James Moriarty." The first addressed, formally.

(_'Which one?' _Molly wanted to say, or maybe even _'wrong one'_…but that wouldn't be _true_, now would it…especially since these men most likely worked for the other one. And she still could not speak.)

"Just a minute." Jim said, flatly, not even turning around (away from Molly) to look at them as they came up from behind, "I'm almost done here."

"Jim…" Molly managed to choke out.

_She could not believe this. _

Jim was really going to be caught.

_Jim Moriarty_, world's only 'consulting criminal', going to be _caught!_

All this running and he was going to be caught.

…and what about her.

It was no secret anymore that she was with (_Yes, with._ Like a couple…? Or just a 'not-quite-hostage'? _Same thing_) Jim and so _surely _there would be consequences for her as well.

"You're _invisible_, remember?" Jim whispered to her , "Just a ghost, love. Nobody can see you..."

The second black suited man, standing directly behind him, coughed in a manner feigning discreetness, fist over his mouth.

"Hurry it up, Mr. Moriarty." The first warned.

"I said I'd be right there, _jeez_…" Jim groaned and Molly saw him roll his eyes because he still didn't even turn to look at the men or the swarm of hungry piranhas around them.

As for Molly, her eyes couldn't decide who to look at and so kept jumping back and forth between Jim and the men in black suits.

_If only there was an escape…_

Molly scanned the room but found _nothing._

And Jim's eyes grabbed her own again, as if with an invisible but incredibly powerful rope.

A _gravity_.

"Keep it safe." He reminded, barely audible, referring to the phone, then adding "and keep safe.", referring to _her._

_"Now,_ Mr. Moriarty." The second suited man declared.

He and the other stomped forwards, until they were close enough to each place a hand on one of Jim's shoulders.

Jim shrugged them off, then leaning towards Molly and kissing her again, hands stroking her cheeks (and then her neck).

_This_ one was _not _quicker than normal, _not_ more serious, _not_ more urgent.

This one was _slow_, like the world itself had stopped turning, and as _sharp _as when he had snatched out one of her hairs from her skull.

Just for a moment (for minutes, hours, days, weeks, years…_seconds_) Jim and Molly _escaped._

And then it _broke._

Jim and Molly's lips broke apart; Jim being pulled _sharply _away from Molly by the two black-suited men and dragged _slowly_ towards the train.

Backwards as he was being _stolen away_ from her, Molly could see Jim (eyes still staring into hers) licking his lips as if painting them, the taste of her _blood_ still on his tongue.

And Molly could taste the metallic flavor in her own mouth, too, from where Jim had _bitten_ her tongue.

She watched, two fingers to her still slightly parted lips, as Jim was taken onto the train.

As he had said, the crowd of people paid her no attention at all.

(What if she _was_ invisible? What if she _was_ a ghost that nobody could see? She was, she _was_…)

Until he was out of her line of sight, Jim continued to look at Molly.

(And perhaps even after she could no longer see him, as well. Molly _could _always_ feel_ when she was being _watched_…)

Once he was on the train and out of view, everyone else boarded too, leaving Molly alone on the platform to watch _helplessly_ as it drove away, steadily increasing in speed until it was _gone._

Until_ Jim _was gone.

Where he was being taken, what was going to happen to him, Molly did not know.

And there was _nothing _she could do.

When the train was out of view, Molly left the empty platform and the empty station (!) and walked all the way home (she didn't trust taxis anymore) on the sidewalks that felt just as empty.

Wasn't _this_ what she had _wanted_…?

…to be_ alone_…?

"_No_." Jim had said once, _"You've never wanted that."_

(And he was _right_, of course, like Sherlock, Jim was_ always_ right but_ unlike_ Sherlock, Jim was always right about _her_.)

…But maybe this was for the_ best_, Jim being just taken away, like that…

…maybe it solved her 'Jim' problem…

Hadn't she _wanted _him to arrested?

(This wasn't exactly 'arrested', but it served the same effect.)

Jim was off the streets, now.

No more crimes, no more_ killings _…

(And he could have easily killed her whenever he so chose.)

This would save lives.

_Perhaps even her own_…

…she had _escaped_, hadn't she?

_Escaped Jim Moriarty. _

She was _free_ from him, now, wasn't she?

…_wasn't she_…?

…So why wasn't she _happy_?

So why did Molly feel more _trapped_ than ever?

* * *

><p><strong>OH NO! <strong>

**Jim's been captured!**

**lol **


	21. Lie Stories

**This one's pretty much Jim-centric.**

**No Molly today, sorry... :( **

**But we do have flashbacks! **

* * *

><p>You would think '<em>just a child'<em> wouldn't _understand _what was happening when the coos of _"ah, you're so lucky he's not a colicky baby"_ and _"he seems so content, serene…thoughtful, even" _ turned to exclamations of _"does he never cry, not even when he's hungry, not at all?"_ and _"what's wrong with him?". _

And you would be _right. _

'_Just a child' did not understand._

And so, he _asked. _

"What's wrong with me?" Jimmy asked, five years old and standing cautiously in the doorway, just behind the threshold to his parents' bedroom, at his mother who was sitting cross-legged on the bed.

But she was with her _Numbers_ again, staring at the ceiling but not seeing it and not seeing Jimmy, rocking back and forth, counting.

When she reached a certain number (no one in the family, not even his father, knew what it was) she would stand up, make the bed perfectly without a wrinkle, and set about cleaning and organizing the small house (room by room always in the same particular order) until it was satisfactory.

This usually took all day and all her effort and so when she was finished she went back to her bedroom and back to bed.

Jimmy and James both looked just like their mother, brown hair and brown eyes, and so they were both named for their red-haired, blue eyed father (-as if to make sure he_ knew_ that they were truly his children).

When father was here, mother didn't act this way; _father simply wouldn't stand for it. _

And so mother acted _normally_.

She'd smile, laugh, sing and dance for Jimmy (who'd _try_ to join in) and James (who was now too old and _grown-up_ for this and so would watch, trying to conceal his smile and tapping foot) and father (who would nod approvingly and even smile himself).

They'd all go out as a _family_, as a_ normal_ family, and eat at restaurants (when they could afford) and go to the park (when they couldn't).

This was where people would usually _ask._

Ask why little Jimmy wasn't playing like the other kids on the playground (he didn't _cry_ when he fell down and skinned his knee, he didn't _laugh_ when pushed on the swing, he didn't_ cry_ when another kid hit him, he didn't _cry_ when pushed _off _the swing onto the woodchips, he didn't _cry)_ and instead stared, expressionless, scaring the other children (and their parents).

"_Why is he doing that?"_

"_Why is he looking at us like that?" _

"_What's wrong with him?" _

Mother wouldn't know what to say, she didn't _know how to talk_ to people who weren't father or James or Jimmy and so she didn't (couldn't) answer…

…and father would much rather 'talk with his hands' and answer with his _fists_ (not appropriate park behavior)…

…and so James would answer _"he's just a child"_ and leave it at that, forgetting the fact that he was only just sixteen and so, too, _'just a child'_ himself.

But father was _not_ here (where he _was,_ mother did not _know_ and James would not _tell_) and so they did_ not _go out like a _family_, a_ normal_ family.

Jimmy stood in the doorframe (angular, rectangular and _empty_ like most everything else in the house) and watched his mother rock back and forth for a few more seconds before finding James.

James always had the _answers_; it was just a matter of making him _tell._

"_Why is the sky blue?" _

"_Because of gas density, and different elements and light. You wouldn't understand." _

"_Where is daddy?" _

"_You know that he's out working." _

"_When'll he come back?" _

"_When he does." _

"_What happened to the other James? Not you or me or dad but the other one? The one that was bigger than me, but smaller than you who used to live with us awhile ago. What happened to him, where did he go? Where is he now?"_

"_Gone."_

James's _knowing things_ was a burden he resented and yet kept _all to himself_ like it was the only thing he owned.

(Because _knowing things_ made you _grown-up_; _knowing things_ made you a _god_.)

Jimmy found James downstairs at the chipped kitchen table, also with his _Numbers_ (math homework).

"What's wrong with me?" he asked him.

James looked up from the textbook and down at Jimmy who stood staring up at him with his usual (lack of) expression.

"_Nothing_." He told him, "You're just a child."

"No, tell me the _truth_." Jimmy demanded.

"Why are you asking this?"

"Because people ask it."

"Do you _care_ what these people think?"

"I dunno."

"Why would you ask, if you didn't?"

"I dunno."

"You_ should_ care. It's _normal _to _care _what people think."

"Okay. Then I care."

James sighed and closed his textbook, turning in his chair to face Jimmy directly.

"It doesn't work like that, you know."

"No I don't. I don't _know things_… _you_ know things."

"People laugh when they're happy, they cry when they're sad…"

"_You _don't."

"_I know that._ But _people _do."

"_Mummy_ doesn't, _daddy_ doesn't…"

"Father _does_. He's just learned to _pretend_ that he doesn't."

"Why?"

"So that he can take care of _us_. Because _we _don't…"

"Mum, too?"

"Yes. Mother, _especially._ And _in exchange_ for that, for him _pretending_ that he doesn't laugh and doesn't cry… _she's_ learned to _pretend _that she _does_."

"What does 'in exchange' mean?"

"Making a deal. They each give each other something of equal value."

"Oh…so mummy's just _pretending_?"

"She-well….she's doing the best she can…. Does that make you _sad_?"

"…I dunno..."

"…You're going to be going to school next year. You're going to have to be around _people_. You're going to have to _learn how to pretend_."

"Okay."

"Not just 'okay'. _Show me._ Show me that you know how to _pretend_…"

"What should I do?"

"Show me happy."

Jimmy looked up at his brother, deliberately pushing the sides of his mouth upwards into a smile.

"See, I'm smiling" he said, "I'm happy."

"It's alright…but you'll need to work on it. Open your mouth when you do it-"

Jimmy opened his mouth wide.

"Like this?"

"Keep you teeth together."

Jim gritted his teeth and grinned.

He tried to say 'like this' but it didn't get past the white wall, missing just one brick he had lost the week before.

"Yes. That's _good." _James approved, "Now show me_ sad_…"

"Do I have to cry?"

"That's what people _do_, when they're _sad_."

"…_I can't_."

Jimmy's grin had fallen and for a seconds James thought he saw the beginnings of sadness caused by his younger brother's inability to 'cry on cue', but no tears came and his _normal_, blank face returned.

"That's alright. You still have time to _practice_. I can help you."

"Do _you_ pretend?"

"In public, _yes_, I have to... it's the _polite_ thing to do. "

"Show me?"

"_No_."

"…then_ how_ will you help me?"

"The same way I just did with the smile. I'll tell you how to pretend and you do what I say."

"Okay. But when I go to school…how will I know _when_ I should do _what_?"

"There are _good things_ and _bad things_. When a _good thing_ happens, you _smile _and when a _bad thing_ happens, you _cry_. Okay?"

"Okay…but how will I know which is a _good thing_ and which is a _bad thing_?"

"People just _know_."

"_I _don't _know_."

"Then you watch what people are doing and do what they do. _That's_ how _you'll know._ And _they'll_ never know the difference."

"But why should I pretend? Why do we all have to pretend?"

"Don't you want to be normal?"

"I dunno."

"Well whether you do or you don't, you still have to be _normal_. You _have_ to be _normal_ because it's the _only way_ to _survive_."

"What does 'survive' mean?"

"_Live_."

"Oh."

"It's what people _do_, not just _normal_ people, _all _people. _We have to live_."

"_Why?_ Why do we _have_ to live?"

"I don't-_We just do_."

"Okay."

"And we_ have_ to _pretend_ to _live_?"

"_Yes_."

"But isn't _pretending_…kind of like _lying_?"

"It_ is_ lying."

"And isn't lying _'bad'_?"

"No. It's not. In fact, it's what all people do to survive—to live."

"Oh. Okay."

And now Jimmy _knew._

But he did not _understand._

_After all_, he was _'just a child'_.

* * *

><p>Every seat, in rows of two and two columns, was filled except for one.<p>

The one next to Jim was empty.

He didn't look around the train car at the black suited people, all holding weapons (come concealed, some not), and sitting orderly in their seats.

The empty seat (the _odd number)_ would bother some…

…but it didn't bother Jim because Jim saw that it was_ not_ an odd number and he _did_ have someone sitting next to him.

_He wasn't alone. _

The train was going through a long, dark tunnel.

Jim stared out the window into the eyes of his own reflection.

_He wasn't alone._

* * *

><p>When Jimmy was ten they weren't poor anymore.<p>

And this was a _good thing._

It was _also_ a _good thing_, moving to London.

But 'they' wasn't four anymore, 'they' was now only_ two. _

(Mother didn't (couldn't) go. She didn't like (couldn't handle) cities, too dirty too much to clean, too much to _count._ And she had vowed never to return to the country of her birth-)

(-She had vowed this to father, who would not set foot anywhere in England (not because he would be arrested, since that could happen anywhere, but because he would not leave the country of _his_ birth ever again) and so also didn't (wouldn't) go.)

Despite this, James still had said it was a _good thing_, moving to London.

And so he took Jimmy with him when he went for _good_ (vowing never to set foot in the country of his birth again).

And it was a_ good thing_, the private school and the uniform James _forced_ Jimmy into, as well.

"_Smile, Jim_." James told him, "It's your first day; you have to make a _good _impression. You _have_ to _smile_."

_So he did. _

And from then on Jimmy was Jim, since he was now a full decade old and so a bit more _grown-up._

(The middle 'James' brother had been 'Jim', first, but he was _gone_…

… And before that had happened, James had once been_ both_ 'Jimmy' _and_ 'Jim', at a time…

…But he was _grown-up_ as soon as he saw his mother cry (_not_ pretending) and his father _not_ cry (also not pretending) at the same time, for the first time, and so went by 'James'.)

Jim already knew _'happy'_ he knew how to _smile._

(However, he was still unable to figure out _'sad'_ and how to _cry_.)

But soon Jim learned other expressions (emotions) to make (_try_ _to_ _feel_).

_Angry_ (furrowed eyebrows, frown).

_Scared_/_Nervous_ (darting eyes, grimace, furrowed brows again).

_Cruel_ (like happy and angry at the same time,_ interesting_…).

_Laughter _(squinting eyes, open and smiling mouth, more _extreme _version of happy).

_Surprise/Shock_ (wide eyes, wide mouth, raised eyebrows, more _extreme_ version of scared (_it was his favorite_)).

He_ learned_ these, he _understood_ these…

…but he did not _know _these.

All of these_ emotions_ were just expressions on his face, mimicked from watching other people.

_(Mirrors don't have feelings.) _

Jim wanted to _know_…he wanted to _feel_.

(And James thought this was _beyond stupid_; if one could _survive_ by pretending, there was no need to make it_ real _and _suffer_.)

But Jim wanted to be like his big brother James, he wanted to _know things_, he wanted to be a _god_…

* * *

><p>Was Jim going to<em> talk<em> to himself now?

Address his own _reflection_, to keep himself from going _crazy_ of _boredom _while unnerving the other passengers in the car?

What would their facial expressions be when they heard him muttering to the window?

_Surprise/Shock_…? (That was always his favorite.)

_Confusion_...?

_Scared/Nervous_…?

What facial expression would Jim make to his reflection?

Would he himself have a reaction upon seeing it?

Would his reflection?

_(Mirrors don't have feelings.) _

Jim gazed blankly at Jim.

No expression.

_Nothing. _

No, Jim was _not _going to talk to himself now.

He was going to be quiet and be _alone._

* * *

><p>"<em>I warned you!" <em>

James was _angry _and he was_ not_ pretending.

But Jim _was._

He was just doing what James had told him to do.

_Pretend. _

"But I had to do it!" Jim tried to explain, "I had to get expression right, _fear_. Isn't that what you wanted me to do?"

He was trying to look as _Scared/Nervous_ (an expression which he had just perfected that morning) as possible, that usually made the _angry _on people's faces soften to _pity_.

_But it didn't work on James. _

James (who always would be taller and older and _smarter_ than Jim no matter how _grown-up_ Jim got) seemed to practically _loom_ above Jim as he glared down angrily at his younger brother.

They had just returned to James' tidy, spacious (although minimalisticly decorated) London flat from the private school.

Twelve years old, Jim had just been suspended from school.

And James had just mustered all his resolve to _not_ slam the door behind them (after that long, silent car ride) and _not_ shout.

"That is _not _what I wanted you to do and _you know it_." James stated, "You trapped that boy in that closet for over four hours! He's claustrophobic; he hyperventilated and had panic attack. He could have died. _You_ could have been arrested!"

"I let him out of there, didn't I?" Jim reminded, folding his arms indignantly.

And he mustered all his resolve to _not_ laugh at the fact that the boy in question had also wet himself while inside the locked closet.

"You shouldn't have put him in there in the first place!" James countered, still _not _shouting.

"I _had_ to!" Jim repeated, opening his arms for emphasis like he has seen some of his teachers do, "I had to see _fear_. I learned_ fear_… Isn't that what you're supposed to do at school? _Learn?..._I _learned_, James, I learned _fear._ I also learned _relief_; I saw _relief _when he got out of the closet! Isn't that what you _want_ me to do?"

James shook his head in disgust.

"Jim…" he sighed, finally, "There are _rules_…"

"The rules are I have to pretend to survive." Jim nodded, "So I had to see _fear_! I had to _know._ And _see_, now I can do _afraid_, look!"

Jim stared up at James, eyes wide and darting, taking shallow breaths in quick succession from his mouth.

James stared down at Jim, seeing what he knew the boy trapped in the closet's panic attack must have looked like.

He was _angry_, still, and still _not _pretending.

But he began to _laugh._

A more extreme version of happy (smiling open mouth) but also mixed with angry (furrowed eyebrows)…

…_cruel_, Jim recognized.

And it had caught him off guard.

James laughed even more when he saw that brief widening of the eyes and mouth and raising of the eyebrows on Jim's face.

…_shock_…

"You want to _learn fear_…" James began, dangerously, the cruel still curling with the smirk on his lips, "…You want to _know fear_…"

Slowly, he advanced closer to Jim, (as always) _looming _over him.

Instinctively (_not_ pretending) Jim backed away until he felt his back hit the hard wall behind him.

"I already _did_!" he exclaimed.

"No you _didn't_." James scoffed, "You only _pretended_…But I said I'd _help_ you, didn't I?_ I_ will teach you…and _you_ will _know_."

Jim's suspension was for the rest of the week, six days, and the boy had been trapped in the closet for four hours.

6x4=24.

24= 1 day.

It added up_ perfectly_, James just _loved_ math, loved his _Numbers_…

So for a full twenty-four hours, _a full day_, Jim was locked in the small, dark hallway-closet of James' rectangular apartment where he_ learned fear _(and claustrophobia).

And from the _relieved_ expression on Jim's face when James finally released him from the prison, James knew that Jim _knew_ _fear._

* * *

><p>And then everything went black.<p>

In the reflection in the window Jim saw the men come up behind him, one holding him down while the other wrapped a blindfold around his eyes.

From then on, it was just being spun around like a game of pin the tail on the donkey so Jim didn't know which direction he was being dragged it.

The train wasn't moving anymore.

Jim felt himself being taken through car after car (he'd lost count, he was never any good at remembering numbers) and then lowered down into off of the train.

He could smell fresh air.

They were outside, somewhere with grass.

And then they were inside again, somewhere with _bleach._

When they removed the blindfold from Jim's face, he was still in darkness.

The only light came from what was obviously a one-way-mirror, _another window with Jim's reflection on it._

"Remove your clothes, please." Jim heard the first suited man say.

He couldn't see where exactly the man stood.

_"My pleasure."_ Jim drawled, relying on the intonation in his voice to relay his facial expression since it could not be seen due to lack of lighting.

(Which also meant that once Jim had removed his clothes, no one was going to see him naked _which kind of ruined the joke_…oh well.)

Jim pulled off the university sweatshirt, revealing one of 'Jim from IT's' v-necks, the white one, tossing it somewhere he couldn't see.

Then he tugged at the heels of 'Jim from IT's' converse with his toes until he could kick off his shoes, which also landed somewhere he couldn't see.

Jim started on his belt buckle but was interrupted. (They left him with his belt? They must have wanted to test if he was suicidal...)

"That's enough, Mr. Moriarty." The suited man stated.

"All you wanted was a_ tease_?" Jim teased, "I still want a _tip_, though."

Someone cuffed Jim's wrists together behind the back of a cold, metal chair that Jim fell backwards into.

A rectangular stream of light beamed into the room from a door opening, causing Jim to squint (unable to lift a hand to shield his unadjusted eyes).

Through his squinting eyes, Jim watched the two suited men (one carrying his shoes and one, his sweater) start towards the door, where a the silhouette of a woman stood.

"You're just going to leave me here?" Jim called after them, "You're not being very good hosts!"

They ignored his words and the door slammed.

Jim was left alone and immobile in the dark.

* * *

><p>If you asked Jim when he 'knew' he was 'gay', he would tell you that it was when he was thirteen and he saw classmate Carl Powers' just-barley muscular physique in a speedo.<p>

(It would be a _lie_, but that's what he would tell you.)

Carl attended the expensive private school on an athletic scholarship and since he was from a poor background Jim thought that with that in common they perhaps could even be _friends_ (Jim had never had a friend before).

But Jim had underestimated (didn't _understand_) the social hierarchy among teenagers.

Jocks weren't _friends_ with the creepy loners who sat in the corner, grinning to themselves, or sometimes, trying to cry.

_And a Jock on an athletic scholarship_, (already in danger of unpopularity because of being poor and his parents not having attended the school), eager to climb the social ladder, _didn't even speak_ to the creepy loner (very_ recently_ 'nouveau riche' who's parents also didn't attend the school) who sat in the corner, grinning to him self and sometimes trying to cry.

And so Carl turned down Jim's attempts at friendship (mimicked from the business propositions Jim had watched James make to men in suits) with _cruel laughter. _

Maybe Jim felt _sad._

_Maybe he_ _did_, but he didn't (couldn't) _cry._

It was _strange_, really, how Jim could go from being the class-clown that everybody thought was hilarious and wanted to be_ friends_ with, one day…to being the creepy loner who sat in the corner trying to cry, the next.

For weeks, Jim was the funny-guy, always happy with_ Laughter_ (squinting eyes, open and smiling mouth) on his face and in his voice, as if Carl's _rejection_ hadn't _bothered_ him.

(And it hadn't, _had it_? Jim was just _pretending_ to be a _sad_ by pretending _not_ to be sad, _right_?)

Maybe Jim felt _angry._

(How_ dare_ Carl _not _want to be his _friend_?

He had selected Carl out of all the hundreds of other students; Carl had been the _chosen one._

How dare he not _choose_ Jim?)

He wanted to tear that _cruel_ sneer from Carl's mouth, rip that _cruel_ laugh right out of his voice.

Jim didn't want Carl to be _sorry. _

_Sorry/Ashamed_ (eyes avoiding contact, brows furrowed) meant that Carl would have realized his mistake.

And _that _(sorry) wasn't _good enough._

_Jim didn't want Carl to even see what hit him coming. _

And he didn't.

It had been too easy sneaking the poison into Carl's eczema medication.

(Looks like _Adonis_ wasn't so _perfect_, after all. Carl had tried to conceal the condition from his peers but Jim wasn't_ stupid_.)

Jim had watched Carl run track for the school team, always wearing the same shoes (the only good, name-brand shoes he had (could afford))…and _no socks_.

Jim (who, once in awhile, actually _did _pay attention in science class) at first had guessed Athlete's Foot, but eczema was close enough.

So, on Carl's _big day_ (the regional swimming competition of the best students from the best schools) Jim had unlocked Carl's locker (the combination was his birthday. _Very original_) dosed the medicine…

…and, _just for the fun of it_, took Carl's shoes.

_(It's not like he'd need them anymore, anyway…) _

Later, just like the rest of the cheering crowd watching the race, Jim was Surprised/Shocked as Carl suddenly started to sputter as he swam, sinking under the chlorinated water.

Then the lifeguard dragged Carl out of the pool, attempting chest-compressions and CPR, and then finally checking for a pulse and then shaking his head _sadly_, as the onlookers gaped in horror, some screaming, some_ crying_.

Jim had to duck out of the room at this point, because he couldn't _pretend_ to be _'sad'_.

Back in the locker-room, Jim looked into in the long mirror, seeing Carl Power's _cruel _sneer, and hearing Carl Power's _cruel_ laugh, coming from his own reflection.

Suddenly, behind Carl Powers—_no, Jim Moriarty's_ image in the mirror was another young teenage boy, peering out from behind a row of gray lockers.

He was wearing a uniform from one of the schools competing against Jim's.

This boy said _nothing._

He just stared at into Jim's (reflection's) eyes with his own ice blue, as if analyzing (_understanding_ (but not _knowing_)) him with just a look.

If you asked Jim when he 'knew' he was 'gay', he would tell you that it was when he was thirteen and he saw classmate Carl Powers' just-barley muscular physique in a speedo.

(It would be a _lie_, but that's what he would tell you.)

He _wouldn't_ tell you that it was when he was thirteen and he saw classmate Carl Powers' just-barley muscular physique in a speedo…_dead_ and then a boy about his age with dark and curly hair, pale skin and omniscient blue eyes.

He wouldn't tell you that it was the day that Sherlock Holmes had replaced Carl Powers as Jim Moriarty's reflection in the mirror.

And he wouldn't tell you about the time he 'knew' that he wasn't 'gay' and that nothing was ever so absolute. About the girl that dominated over the dead and could barely handle herself around the living...about the girl who had _become_ the mirror.

(No, he wouldn't tell anyone. He'd never tell anyone, not even_ himself_.)

* * *

><p>Jim was never any good at remembering numbers, at remembering dates and keeping track of time.<p>

He didn't know how long it had been (hours? days?) that he had been alone in the dark interrogation room when the light returned to further blind him.

Squinting, Jim managed to see a silhouette of a man enter the room.

It was not one of the two black suited men…or the female he had seen earlier.

This was a buff man in a black wife-beater, camouflage pants, and a bald head, who was obviously meant to look very _intimidating._

Jim started to snicker.

Was this one of James's _Numbers?_ Somebody his brother had recruited from some defense contractor, or just right out of the military discharge list?

"Mr. Moriarty." The man addressed.

Jim said nothing.

He wasn't going to talk to this_ nobody_ (probably not even in James's _top ten_; probably more like a number fifty or even less…).

If James wanted to capture and interrogate him, then he would have to do better then this 'bruiser' whose IQ was probably _inversely proportional_ to his _numerical value of importance._

"Mr. Moriarty." The man repeated.

Jim still refused to speak.

"Where is the code?" The man asked.

Jim didn't answer.

"Where is the code?" the man repeated,_ angrier_.

His brows were furrowed and his mouth was frowning.

Jim kept his expression _neutral_ (aside from a slight smile due to the ridiculousness of this situation).

"Where's the code!" the man shouted, now even_ more_ angrier.

Jim knew his breaking point was near.

Jim broadened his grin.

_Point broken. _

And that's when the punching began.

* * *

><p>"Stop, no! Just stop!" Lewis cried, "Why are you <em>torturing<em> me! I haven't done anything! Stop! Let me go!"

He was strapped down to the white table, in the white room, receiving carefully channeled electric shocks to his skull.

_This_ was _therapy._

It was 'proven' to alleviate _depression_ by re-wiring the brain.

_But Lewis was_ _schizophrenic._

Jim watched from the one-way window, trying to copy the contorted faces that Lewis made as he was shocked.

_Pain. _

_Scared/Nervous. _

_Pain. _

_Panic. _

_Pain. _

_Anger. _

_Pain. _

Jim wished he was on the other side, where the window was just a black mirror and he would be able to see his reflection, see if he was doing Lewis's expressions correctly.

The doctor, dressed in a white labcoat, pressed the button to administer the next round of shocks.

_Pain. _

_Scared/Nervous. _

_Pain. _

_Panic. _

_Pain. _

_Anger. _

_Pain. _

Lewis, stripped down to his underwear, was writhing on the table, struggling to break free from the leather restraints.

When the shocks finally subsided Lewis lay still on the table and _for a second_ Jim thought he was _dead._

But as the doctor's hand hovered above that little button, Lewis's neck shook as it tried to lift his heavy head, black hair still standing on end from the residual electricity, and turn to his torturer.

"Please…" he begged, in a hoarse whisper, "Please…just stop…"

And the doctor really looked like he was going to.

_For a second_, he thought he had actually _cured_ Lewis.

But, _alas._

"…don't _torture_ me…don't _do _this to me anymore…" Lewis continued to plead in his almost nonexistent voice, "…whatever you have to do, don't do it to me… for god's sake,_ please,_ don't do it to me…do it to Carol, _do it to Carol_…"

And the doctor pressed the buttons.

As Jim watched Lewis's body jump and jolt with the shocks (now only by reflex as Lewis had passed out), he couldn't help but smile.

"_Do it to Carol."_

'_Do it to Julia.'_

Wasn't that part of some book he had read in Literature class or something…?

Lewis wasn't serious; he was just_ playing_ with the doctors.

He was just _pretending_…

Jim liked Lewis.

The nineteen year old was _crazy_, yes, but he knew how to have_ fun._

(And wasn't_ crazy_ the _only way_ to have _fun_?)

Now if only Lewis would stop being so damn infatuated with that imaginary girlfriend Carol of his…

…Jim might have considered Lewis a _friend._

(Jim wouldn't be _'friends'_ with anyone he couldn't have completely to himself.)

They knew (although probably didn't _understand_) each other well enough, their rooms were right beside one another, after all, so they had talked.

And just _what _was Jim doing in this _mental hospital_ in the first place?

It was another one of James's _punishments._

(Apparently killing was a _bad thing, _against the _rules_, and something that James's had _warned_ Jim about doing and told him not to do and _blah, blah, blah_…)

James informed Jim that his stay at the institution was _'for his own good'_, so Jim would _learn his lesson_…

…and _'for his own protection'_, just in case the police_ did_ decide to investigate Carl Power's death as a murder.

It was fun for a while, seeing all the_ 'crazies'_ and learning their expressions (emotions).

During group therapy, the counselor had declared that _'you feel an emotion so you make a facial expression…but if you make a facial expression, you also feel that emotion'. _

(This, of course, was what Jim had been trying to do since he was Jimmy.

He wondered if it worked for _normal_ people.)

The counselor then followed up his statement with the usual _'so smile, it takes less muscles than frowning' _since every single doctor working at the facility seemed to believed that the entire patient population suffered from depression.

Jim sat there in the circle grinning, as if he was the _happiest_ person on the planet.

* * *

><p>Violence was <em>easy.<em>

Movement was _easy._

_Too easy. _

_Normal._

The _mind_ was the _weapon_ to be respected.

To be _feared._

And so Jim said _nothing_ as he was continuously attacked, over and over again, by a number of muscular men demanding 'the code'.

The 'pain' didn't (_couldn't_) affect him.

Nothing psychical could affect him.

_Jim Moriarty was a mind. _

And in his mind, he repeated his favorite childhood nursery rhyme:

…'_sticks and stones can't break my bones, only clever words can hurt me'…_

Over and over again.

But enough of the silence, enough of the _darkness_…

Jim wanted to talk.

Hours later, or days later, or maybe even _weeks_ later, the light came again, and Jim closed his eyes and smiled, basking in it.

When he opened them, the buff men were gone, replaced by a woman (probably the female figure from earlier) in a black suit, smartphone in hand.

_Anthea. _

_Mycroft Holmes's employee. _

So James _wasn't_ the one behind Jim's abduction, it was _Mycroft_…

_Of course! _

That explained all the black suits, and all the black cars.

The taxi had been _James_, but the taxi was only allowed to _watch…_

…but the black suited men, driving the black cars, they had been _Mycroft_, and their orders were to _capture._

So this meant Mycroft knew about _the code._

Which meant that James _hadn't_ used his handy code to block the mass text Jim had sent out to all his contacts from Lewis's phone…

…even though he _knew_ Lewis had been killed by the government, his phone confiscated and his messages available to be read by Mycroft and his men.

So this was James's game.

Have the British government (_Mycroft Holmes_) do his 'dirty work' for him.

_Brilliant_, Jim had to admit.

James (who always would be taller and older and _smarter_ than Jim no matter how _grown-up_ Jim got) had 'won this round'.

(But James had just _'won the battle, not the war' _and the _'game wasn't over yet'_, and all those 'nursery rhymes' that Jim kept repeating in his head.)

_No_, the War was _not_ over.

_No,_ the Game was_ not_ over.

(_Indeed, it never was_.)

Jim closed his eyes again.

"Mr. Moriarty." Anthea began and Jim eyes flew back open and looked up at her.

The lights in the interrogation room were on, now, and Jim realized the room was _white._

"Yes, miss…_um_…what might _your_ name be?" he asked.

Anthea rolled her eyes, almost snorting but not snorting because that wasn't professional and definitely wasn't lady-like.

"I'm here to talk about _you_ today, _Mr. Moriarty_." She stated, "Not me."

"Enough about me…" Jim cooed, "More about you, so tell me about yourself…"

"_The code_, Mr. Moriarty." Anthea insisted.

_She was a good little solider._

(Properly trained to stay on topic when speaking to psychopaths who would try to distract her, mess with her mind, get her to open up and trust, and then destroy her…)

"_Look_." Jim said flatly, his face matching his tone, "You're just a _nobody_. A _busy little worker-bee_. I'm not talking to _you_. I want to talk to the q_ueen_."

"Excuse me?" Anthea replied, taken aback.

(She had been briefed about Moriarty and his metaphors but her boss had been called a 'queen' far too many times to not be a little bit cautious about this.)

"_Okay_. Let me make it _easy_ for a _drone_ like _you _to _understand_…" Jim said, speaking as if Anthea was an mentally handicapped child fluent only in a foreign language, " Me _Moriarty_… _Me_ want to _talk_ to _your boss_."

Anthea sucked her teeth and stared at the ceiling.

"You'll speak to _me_." She told him.

"_No._" Jim grinned, shaking his head exaggeratedly, "I'll speak to Mr. Holmes..."

* * *

><p><strong>...not filler, I hope lol.<strong>

**And I'm considering a Mycroft POV for next chapter...hmm...preferences, anyone? **


	22. True Stories

**...Hey guys lol :)**

**Mixed feelings about Mycroft...who is here, but so is Molly and Jim and even Sherlock (who also causes mixed feelings-if mixed means negative lol). **

**So today's just a mixed chapter, it seems lol. **

**ALSO CONTAING: **

**-(Lots and lots of) metaphors, of course, as always (I think I'm gonna make some kind of chart detailing all of them and which chapters they appear in-wish me luck!) **

**-first person POV for the first time (!) that kinda makes fun of my own writing style lol and my choice to add in Mycroft **

**- A silly pun (that Jim only makes because it's something stupid that I would say lol) **

**-Lisping (also another tribute to my favorite author; myself. lol. (and the reason I perfer writing to talking out loud)) **

** -Me saying 'lol' too much **** in the Author's Note (like I always do)**

**- Almost invisble dabbles into metafiction which we're studying in class right now lol and probably will continue into the next few chapters **

**- Copious parentheses (however that word is spelled)**

**-Refrences to Shakespeare (which play?), Mythology, and other random things I'm not even sure why I throw in lol **

**- And words that I'm pretty sure actually don't exist.**

**(If you want-you can start a checklist and find them all-if you get bored reading, or something lol)**

**...Oooookay SHUTTING UP NOW! **

**Have fun! **

**(hopefully) **

* * *

><p>You would think that Sherlock Holmes always was, always has been, <em>the way he is.<em>

A proverbial, _'mathematical constant'_, one could say.

But you would be _wrong._

Sherlock Holmes is fluid.

_Dynamic._

Always moving, always_ changing_…even_ now_.

_Especially_ now.

And so before… y_ears_ before now, Sherlock was… _different._

(Well, he's always been 'different', hasn't he?)

But what I mean is…Sherlock, he was…he-

* * *

><p>"You're rambling, <em>Mr. Holmes<em>."

"_Am I?" _

"You're _stalling_…get to the point."

"All in good time, _all in good time_…but all good stories need a good prologues, some exposition…_something to set the mood_—"

"It was a dark and stormy night..._Crash!_ Lightning. _Boom!_ Thunder. _Oooh, mummy, I'm scared!_….There_._ Exposition. _Now get on with it."_

"Really, Mr. Moriarty, I don't see why you're in such a hurry. It's not as if you're _going anywhere_, now is it? In fact, I believe I have you as my '_captive audience'_…"

"_Stalling again_! And you're _losing_ me…You're not very good at this, are you? This _storytelling_ thing? Bet _little Sherlock_ didn't like that. A word of advice, Mr. Holmes…_get. to. the. point_."

"Oh, Alright..."

* * *

><p><em>Alright. <em>

Sherlock was only fourteen, _just a child_, when he took his first case.

I say _'took'_ because he didn't _solve_ it until almost twenty years later.

That case, as you know of course, is the suspicious death of Carl Powers, a teenaged athlete who died during his swimming championship.

I say _'suspicious death'_ but what I mean is that it was only _suspicious_ to Sherlock.

_Everyone else_ thought the boy, Powers, had simply drowned.

_Sherlock knew better. _

But, being only fourteen years of age and _just a child_, could do absolutely _nothing _about it—despite his multiple attempts to convince police that the supposed 'drowning death' was, in fact, a _murder_.

He tried _so hard_, Sherlock did, to get the police, to get _someone, anyone, _to get_ me,_ to just _listen to him._

But nobody did.

_Not even me. _

I_ knew_ he was _right_, and, even_ then,_ I had significant enough influence in the government to _do something_ about it—but I _didn't._

And still, completely and utterly _alone _in his 'crusade', _Sherlock kept trying._

I had always known Sherlock was_ different_, yes…

…_but_ _this_…

This was when it all started for him.

_This _was when I truly realized that Sherlock was _more_ than just 'different'.

That he was _different than me. _

That he wouldn't compromise himself; his lifestyle, his morals, his _personality,_ like_ I _had for the sake of appearing _normal._

That he would never give up and that he would never be satisfied, nothing would ever be enough…

For him, for my brother, Sherlock Holmes…the Game will always be 'afoot'.

* * *

><p>Mycroft Holmes<em> thought<em> he had delivered a very elegant and eloquent preface for the biography of his younger and only brother Sherlock Holmes.

_He took a breath. _

But before Mycroft could continue his_ story_, Jim Moriarty (handcuffed to a chair, locked in a secret interrogation room) started to snicker.

Yes, _snicker._

Not laugh_ maniacally_, or anything, like a _criminal of his caliber_ should have (or, rather, _the caricature_ of a criminal of his caliber) but snicker, just _snicker_.

And, frankly, it_ unnerved_ him.

(Which, probably, was Moriarty's purpose.)

Not much unnerved Mycroft Holmes (the British government) who had seen 'a great many things' (_bad things_) during his career…

…but Jim Moriarty _did._

Perhaps it was the fact that the 'consulting criminal' was just so damn_ obsessed_ with Sherlock.

(And that he wasn't so _different _from Sherlock.)

(And that he, too, like Sherlock would _never give up…)_

"You don't _get it_, do you?" Moriarty snorted, finally looking up at Mycroft from how he, with closed eyes, had been _snickering_ into his lap, "Even _now_, twenty years later…_you just don't get it_."

"Get what?" Mycroft had to ask, willingly 'taking the bait' because he had to keep Moriarty talking.

"The joke." Moriarty said, matter-of-factly.

"The_ joke_?" Mycroft repeated, raising an eyebrow, "_What_ 'joke'…?"

"_The_ joke." Moriarty repeated, chuckling, "Think about what you just said, Mr. Holmes, _think_…"

Moriarty paused to allow Mycroft to _think._

Mycroft furrowed his brows and _thought_, knowing that Moriarty was watching the metaphorical 'gears' turning inside his skull, probably imagining some kind of hamster running on a wheel—

"_Anything?"_ Moriarty interrupted Mycroft's thought process.

"No." Mycroft admitted, shaking his head, "_Nothing."_

Moriarty snickered again.

"Ah, that's _too bad._" he moaned exaggeratedly, "...but I guess I shouldn't have expected _you_, Mr_. 'I'm the government and I've got no sense of humor'_, to actually_ get_ the joke."

"And are you going to explain it to me?" Mycroft asked, and then added, "…_bitter fool?_" to show that he indeed _did_ have a sense of humor.

"_Really_, 'nuncle', _Shakespeare_?" Moriarty returned, rolling his eyes, "It's so _old._ I much prefer the modern…the _novel_…And it's so mainstream, too, so _normal_…so _boring…" _

"Hmm, I so had you figured for a 'renaissance man', Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft commented, folding his arms.

"People forget that _'renaissance'_ means _rebirth_." Moriarty countered, sighing, "And that's what I am; reborn, _re-imagined_. I'm _new..._Not some senile old bureaucrat with an umbrella stuck up his ass."

Mycroft simply smiled at this insult.

He was _not_ going to dignify it with any other response.

"I apologize." He said, "In my 'senility' I must have gotten my definitions confused. I shouldn't have said 'renaissance man'…The term I meant is 'polymath'."

"…_oh_." Moriarty accepted, nodding, eyes and mouth wide, seeming to understand (but in the most mocking of ways possible).

"_Still_…" Mycroft continued, "It's a shame that you can't _appreciate_ true _culture._ That you can't appreciate our rich British—"

"I'm _Irish!_" Moriarty growled.

"_Yes_." Mycroft nodded, smiling, "You _are_..."

* * *

><p>After three days of no one breaking into her apartment to capture andor kill her, Molly had decided that it was safe to leave and return to work.

Apparently, Jim's brother James wasn't planning to 'make good' on his _threat_ to have her 'lying cold' on her own 'morgue table' if she ever saw Jim again…and his men in black suits had been content with stealing Jim away from her instead.

(_Stealing?_ From _her_? What, did Molly think she _owned_ Jim now? (More likely it was the other way around…))

It was funny actually, Molly thought, that it had taken over a hundred people to take Jim into custody.

James had somehow vacated the entirety of King's Cross train station and replaced all the normal travelers with his own employees.

And then suddenly it wasn't funny anymore.

It was_ scary._

So _this _was the extent of James' _power_…

…And Molly had thought _Jim_ was _dangerous._

_(They really were gods, weren't they?) _

(…and speaking of _gods_…)

Sherlock was already down in the basement when Molly arrived at the hospital that morning.

_Waiting_, but_ not_ for _her_—for her _help_ (sadly, there_ was_ a difference).

_Still_, for the great consulting detective (the great, all-powerful god) _Sherlock Holmes_ to seek the help of _mere mortal _(amoeba) Molly Hooper…

_As always_, she was_ honored_, and she _obliged._

"I require the use of some of your equipment." Sherlock stated as soon as he saw Molly come down the stairs.

It wasn't a question, it wasn't a request (-It wasn't even _polite!). _

It was an order that Molly, as always, dutifully obeyed.

"Sure, Sherlock." Molly agreed, smiling, "What do you need?"

"I'll find it myself." Sherlock replied, "Just unlock the lab for me."

"Okay." Molly nodded, still trying to maintain the smile which Sherlock did not return.

Sherlock followed Molly down the dim hallway, past the cold room with the bodies, to the lab.

She reached into her pocket to pull out the keys…

…and realized she didn't have her white labcoat.

"Um…" Molly fumbled, in front of the wooden door, slapping her hips as if she believed the keys to be in her pants pockets.

She could_ feel_ Sherlock _watching_ her.

Now he would realize that she wasn't wearing the labcoat she always wore.

And then he would wonder _why._

And then he would look at her and _deduce. _

…_and then it would be all over._

Molly's breath hitched.

But Sherlock said nothing.

Molly turned around, there was no expression on his face that Molly could (feebly attempt to) read and 'deduce' his deductions about her.

_Nothing. _

"I'm _thorry.._." Molly apologized.

And then she noticed how her voice had sounded.

Surprised, she squeaked, quickly bringing a hand to her lips, parting them just slightly enough so that she could feel the tip of her tongue on her fingers.

There was a sore…

…a _bite-mark_...

…that had still not yet _healed._

('Not yet healed' because Molly had been picking at it with her own teeth, _absentmindedly_—or, maybe, _deliberately_ because she didn't _want_ it to.)

Would Sherlock deduce _this_ as the cause of her new lisp?

Would Sherlock deduce that Molly Hooper had been at the train station with Jim Moriarty when the black suits had come to take him away?

Would Sherlock deduce that Jim had _kissed_ her, _twice_…and that the second time he had bit the very tip of her tongue with his front teeth just as they were being broken away?

Would Sherlock deduce that Molly had wanted so badly to call out to Jim as he was being taken away but she _didn't _(couldn't)and so since that day she had been hiding out in her flat and hadn't spoken a single word, the last ones she had said being said only to Jim?

Would Sherlock deduce _this_?

"Just go get a spare from the security office." Sherlock told Molly, groaning to himself and massaging his forehead as if this delay was the most annoying event possible.

And Molly (incredibly relieved) was eager, _as always_, to oblige the god.

(And a few days later the cut on her tongue had healed and her lisp had gone since she had decided to stop picking at it for the sake of discretion _to keep herself safe_, as Jim had requested.)

* * *

><p>"…but you're<em> mother's<em> not." Mycroft completed.

(It was a simple deduction, really. Jim didn't look ethnically Irish but had an Irish last name, so his father must have been Irish while his mother could've been as English as the people he tried to distance himself from by insisting his country of origin so adamantly.)

Jim knew Mycroft was only trying to 'bait' him with his comments about his mother and he certainly wasn't going to 'take the'.

Sure, if his hands weren't cuffed together behind his back and a chair, Jim would jump up and punch him…but since they _were_, Jim was going to 'be the bigger person'.

"And _your_ mother sucks cocks in hell, Mr. Holmes." Jim retorted, _definitely_ being the 'bigger person'.

"You're_ stalling_, Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft stated, folding his hands behind his back and then bringing them back to his sides, stretching out his fingers, as if to demonstrate how _free _they were, "Explain the joke to me."

"Okay," Jim began, grin already returning to his face upon remembering the joke, "A Brit, a Scot and an Irishman walk into a bar—"

"I'm stopping you. I believe I've heard that one before." Mycroft interrupted, "Tell me the other one."

"The catchphrase." Jim said.

" 'c_atchphrase_'?" Mycroft repeated, again raising an eyebrow, "I wasn't_ aware_ Sherlock had a 'catchphrase'…"

"'T_he Game's afoot'_." Jim declared, "You said it yourself."

And Mycroft_ did_ recall saying something along those lines earlier….

Jim began to snicker again.

"And just _what_ is so funny about _that, _might I ask?" Mycroft asked, eyebrow still raised.

"You still don't get it, do you, _genius_?" Jim questioned.

"Obviously not."

" 'the Game's afoot'."

"…_Yes?"_

"The _Game_…" Jim said again, stressing and elongating certain important words and syllables, " is _a_-_foot_."

"_Afoot?"_

"No! A Foot. A…Foot!...as in, you know, the thing with five toes at the bottom of your leg. A foot. The_ Game_ is _A Foot_."

"The Game is A Foot." Mycroft repeated, still confused.

He got that Jim meant 'foot' (as in the body part) but he didn't get the joke.

(He_ knew_ but he didn't _understand_.)

Jim sighed.

"Sherlock's first case. Carl Powers." He attempted, "What made Sherlock _suspicious_? What did Sherlock notice that nobody else did?..._What was Carl missing?"_

"Carl Powers was missing…he was missing…_ah_, his trainers." Mycroft remembered.

"_Very good_, Mr. Holmes! _Good boy_!" Jim congratulated condescendingly, wishing so much that he could clap his hands, "Carl was missing his trainers. _His shoes_…and _what_, Mr. Holmes, do we put in a shoe?"

_Insight. _

An instantaneous revelation.

An _understanding._

And suddenly Mycroft Holmes got the joke.

"A foot." He said.

Jim grinned.

"A foot." He repeated, "The _Game_… the very first game that Sherlock ever played, the one that, even now, he still hasn't finished, despite finally solving the case...is _A Foot_. Get it?"

"Yes." Mycroft nodded.

"Isn't it _hilarious_…" Jim chuckled, shaking his head, "All this time…it's been a _joke_, Sherlock's _catchphrase_, a damn _pun_…commemorating his first case. The_ Game _is_ A Foot_. Celebrating our _bond. '_The Game is afoot'. Because, like you said, the Game is _always_ afoot…"

* * *

><p>But Sherlock, well, he never <em>played well<em> with the other children.

He was _smarter_ than them and he _knew_ it, _they all_ knew it…but when he was _just a child_ he didn't _care._

All his 'discoveries', his thoughts, his _feelings _(and yes, he used to have those)…he couldn't keep them to himself.

He wanted to share them with everyone.

He wanted everyone to be as excited about, say, his insect wing collection or the fingerprint patterns in the finger-paintings, as he was.

But that was simply impossible, of course, and so all the other kids found Sherlock annoying…

…and the emotional outbursts he would have-that he _still has,_ sometimes, on _bad days_—they would…_unnerve_ them.

When he was _just a child_, Sherlock couldn't control his emotions, his impulses…

Everything he felt, I suspect he felt so much more strongly than everyone else did that it overwhelmed even his superior mind.

He cared too much.

And so I told him that _'caring is not an advantage'_.

And I _programmed_ that 'nursery rhyme' into his brain… until he learned to ignore, to _smother_...to attack, to _destroy_ every emotion he experienced and became the efficient _machine _that he is now.

He always resented me for it, too.

And there were times, too, that he _rebelled._

He would disappear for days, _weeks_ even…_escape_ into the city…

…escape into a 'higher plane of existence', he told me once.

The _extreme_ state of consciousness, the feeling of omniscience, omnipotence that only artificial stimulants can provide.

He become a_ 'god'_, he said.

And he _loved_ it.

But the 'higher you fly, the harder you fall' as they say—whoever _'they'_ are.

There was no gentle way to bring Sherlock down from his hazy, grey skies where only _he_ could see through the clouds.

He couldn't just _climb_ down from Mount Olympus…he had to _jump._ He had to _fall._

It was the only way down.

So many times I had to lock him in dark rooms, alone with _nothing_…

…until his blood was free of the substance, free from the need of it and he was 'human' again.

And he _hated_ it.

He hated me.

But what he didn't _know_, though…

…or, rather what he _always knew_ but never really _understood_ (except while under the influence)…

…was that he already_ was_ a god.

_Always was a god._

He and I, being as we are,_ understand_ people.

We look at them and we _understand._

But what had always been an _advantage_ to me, a _power _of mine that I use to _control _people via my _understanding_ of them…

…has always been a _handicap _to Sherlock Holmes, his 'Achilles Heel'.

He _understands_ people, yes, but cannot relate to them.

He can't_ know _them.

And so, they've always_ unnerved _him.

So _selfish_, so _petty_, so _stupid_…ordinary people are.

_Sherlock fears them. _

And so, like ordinary people _do _when they_ fear_ something, he _avoids_ them.

* * *

><p>The phone (<em>Jim's<em> phone) had been 'ringing off the hook' (vibrating constantly) since Molly had received it from Jim that day at the train station.

(And she did, only once, turn the ringer on just to see what the ringtone was. It was some old disco song. No wonder he had it on vibrate.)

She never answered.

The calls went to voicemail and the texts went unreplied.

(She _did _listen to some of the voicemails, though, and read some of the texts. Most of them concerned some kind of code and proof of its existence that people wanted.)

Molly brought the phone with her wherever she went, afraid that if she let it go for one moment that it would disappear all together (be stolen, perhaps) and she would have betrayed Jim's (last?) request to keep it safe.

(But that wasn't Jim's (last?) request, keeping the phone safe. It was to keep _herself _safe…)

Molly guessed she was safe, no one had tried to attack her or anything in the two weeks (seventeen days, actually, even thought Molly had never been good at remembering numbers and dates and keeping track of time) Jim had been _gone._

_She hoped he was safe. _

"Somebody's getting quite popular today." Sherlock commented, pulling Molly from her thoughts.

He had once again come to the morgue on a case—this time to examine the body of politician that had probably been murdered on a rival candidate's behalf.

And, for the umpteenth time that afternoon, Jim's phone had vibrated.

"Fifteen times, already, it's vibrated." Sherlock added, turning from the metal table where he was going over the strangulation patterns around the victim's neck to look at Molly suspiciously, "Are you ever going to answer?"

Sherlock was still holding the magnifying glass he was using up to his eye and so Molly could see the ice blue orb _burning _like a star at her, bigger and so brighter than usual.

Did he _know?_

"Um—I—" Molly stammered, reaching into the pocket of her new white labcoat to silence the cellphone, "Not yet. I'm still on shift, after all. I'm not supposed to be on the phone…it's just, uh, my boyfriend, anyway…"

"_Lair."_ Sherlock scoffed, turning back to the corpse and returning to its fatal wounds.

"I'm not!" was all Molly could manage to say, already holding her breath.

Did he _know?_

Had he figured out that this was not her phone but _Jim Moriarty's_ and that it wasn't her boyfriend (did she even _have_ a 'boyfriend'?) contacting her but Jim's contacts contacting him?

Molly never had been a very good liar….

(And was that a _good thing_ or a _bad thing_?)

"I knew it." Sherlock muttered.

And Molly froze.

…_uh oh_…

"I knew it!" Sherlock repeated, louder, whirling around to face Molly.

"…knew _what?_" Molly asked, already cringing at what the answer might be.

"I knew it was the gay lover he was secretly seeing!" Sherlock exclaimed.

And Molly let out a sigh of relief.

…_Thank god_….

(And, _of course_, it was the gay lover. More than half of everybody in the world revolving around Sherlock seemed to be gay in some way or connected to someone gay.)

"But I thought it was his opponent in the election…" Molly replied.

"It was." Sherlock stated.

"Wait a minute—you just said it was the gay lover—"

"And it _was._ His opponent in the election was also his lover. Please, John, try to keep up."

"My name's Molly…"

"_Whatever."_

"But how did you know—"

"It's_ just_ _so obvious_, really." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "The man was strangled with his own belt. Who would access to his belt, the element of surprise and _him_? A lover during a sexual encounter. And who would have the motive to kill him in the first place? His political opponent…especially when that political opponent was threatening to expose their secret relationship."

"That makes sense." Molly nodded, "…But I thought you didn't pay attention to politics…"

"I_ don't_." Sherlock affirmed, "It's too petty. Unimportant…but regrettably, my brother _does_ 'pay attention to politics'. In fact, he's quite _involved._ He explained to me the trivial, _boring_ game that is _politics_…they're all just fixed, anyway, elections. These two politicians had a deal to share power no matter who won the election. That's why they never broadcast any negative attack adverts against each other. But you know this. You were there when Mycroft explained it, John."

"But John's not here _now_!" Molly cried, "He went to the bathroom three minutes ago! _You're looking right at me, for god's sake!_ You_ know _I'm not him!"

"Yes, of course, I know that." Sherlock stated, unconvincingly.

He wasn't that good of a liar, either, Molly 'deduced'...that, or he just didn't bother _trying_ when he was lying to her.

_"Liar."_ Molly wanted to say but _didn't._

She was quiet and the silence was awkward, as it always was (especially between her and Sherlock).

"I'm off to find John, then." Sherlock decided, taking one last suspicious look at Molly and then stalking towards the door.

A few moments after he was gone Jim's phone rang again.

…_rang!_

(Molly thought she had turned that thing off!)

The music was playing and Molly (after jumping up in alarm and squeaking) hastily shoved her hand into her labcoat pocket, snatching up the phone and pressing buttons frantically trying to shut off its ringer.

Finally the smartphone silenced.

And in that silence, Molly thought she heard something (someone).

But when she peered her head, cautiously, around the door (already cringing at what (whom) she might see) the hallway was empty.

* * *

><p>Another day, another chapter and when it was finally finished Mycroft thought he had told a very riveting tale…<p>

Of games and rules and exceptions.

Of _the_ Game and _the_ rules and _the_ exception.

Of heroes and villains in a world where nothing was ever so absolute.

Of good men and great men, of angels and demons.

Of gods.

Of Sherlock Holmes.

(Once _alone_—the only light burning in the vast empty darkness of space-but now surrounded by orbiting planets.)

And Mycroft thought it was all beautiful, _almost _perfect.

(But not perfect because there was really only one man who could tell the story of Sherlock Holmes perfectly.)

He stared down at Jim Moriarty, awaiting a response.

Moriarty was still seated in the metal chair, but his handcuffs were gone (removed a week ago). Mycroft knew by then that the dangerous criminal wasn't going to be_ physically_ dangerous.

Moriarty didn't seem to _respect _physical violence (when it didn't involve gunpowder and explosives). He liked to play _chess_, not _sports._

Moriarty began to clap.

The archetypal villainous slow clap, it echoed off the white walls of the interrogation room.

Mycroft waited patiently for him to finish,_ not_ rolling his eyes (even though he had had just about enough of Moriarty's campy overacting these past two weeks).

"_Beautiful,_ Mr. Holmes," Moriarty sobbed, wiping a tear from his eye, "Just beautiful! _Pure_ _perfection_!"

"Thank you." Mycroft said flatly, "…and now that I've held up _my_ end of the bargain, it's time for you to hold up _yours_, Mr. Moriarty. _Tell me the code_."

"Well…about that…." Moriarty grinned, sheepishly.

"Now, now Mr. Moriarty, no stalling." Mycroft warned, raising any eyebrow and a pointed finger.

"IOU." Moriarty blurted.

"Come again?" Mycroft replied, eyebrow still raised.

"_I…O…U_" Moriarty repeated, slower this time, stressing each syllable, "IOU."

"Is that the code?" Mycroft asked, "IOU?"

"Ummmmmmm _no_."

"Then what _is_ it? Tell me the code, we had a deal. _You promised._ You're not a _liar_, Mr. Moriarty, _are you_?"

"Actually, I_ am_—but that's not the point."

"And what, pray tell, is the _point_?"

"Point is, Mr. Holmes, I'd _love_ to keep my _promise_. I'd _love _to tell you the code, _I really would_…but I can't."

"And why not?"

Moriarty laughed at this, shaking his head and covering his face with one hand, looking down at his lap.

"Well, truthfully, it's a little _embarrassing_, it is…You see, I wish I could tell you the code...but I seem to have _forgotten _it."

"You've 'forgotten it'?"

"….I never _was_ any good at remembering numbers…"

Mycroft mirrored Moriarty's hand on face, massaging his aching forehead.

"We_ had_ an _agreement._"

"Yes, I know, I know. I'm sorry…and I owe you one, Mr. Holmes, _IOU_."

* * *

><p>It had never been Mycroft Holmes's intention to set Jim Moriarty free.<p>

After their conversation, Mycroft had left Moriarty in the interrogation room for a week.

And, just the further punish the 'consulting criminal' for not revealing the code, Mycroft had turned off the lights, leaving Moriarty _alone_ in the _dark_.

It had never been Mycroft Holmes's intention to set Jim Moriarty free.

For all Moriarty had done (to everyone (to Sherlock)), he deserved to _flicker_ in there until he finally _burned_ out.

It had never been Mycroft Holmes's intention to set Jim Moriarty free.

And even if Moriarty had given Mycroft the code he still wouldn't have let him go.

Their deal had been 'tell me the story'—'tell me the code'.

There was no mention of release in that agreement.

And Moriarty had gotten what he had wanted; _the story of the life of Sherlock Holmes. _

Told by Sherlock's own brother.

It had never been Mycroft Holmes's intention to set Jim Moriarty free...

…But Mycroft Holmes _needed _Jim Moriarty's code.

"It's not his code." Mycroft muttered, suddenly, mostly to himself.

"What was that, sir?" Anthea asked.

She watched Mycroft as he stood in front of the two-way window, staring into the darkness.

He could not see Jim Moriarty, the_ villain _in Sherlock's story.

All he could see was his own reflection.

And then Anthea's, approach behind him.

Mycroft turned around (no longer wanting to face himself).

"It's not his code," He said again, "Jim Moriarty did not make that code—whatever it is. Someone _else_ did. And _that's why_ he cannot _remember _it. Because he didn't _create_ it, it doesn't _belong_ to him. It's not _his_."

"Who _did_ create the code, then?" Anthea inquired.

"I don't know." Mycroft sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his head, "And he's not going to tell us…"

"So what should we do, sir?"

"We have to get him to lead us to the one person who can tell us the code, it's creator…"

"_Sir?"_ Anthea exclaimed in disbelief of the anticipated answer.

"We have to let him go." He said.

(It had never been Mycroft Holmes's intention to set Jim Moriarty free._ But he did._)

* * *

><p>You would think that Sherlock Holmes is <em>unknowable.<em>

_Un-understandable. _

You would be _wrong._

But there are, actually, a small few that do truly _know _him.

And one, only one, that _understands_ him.

You would think that the one person to truly _understand _Sherlock Holmes would _never_- _could _never _betray_ him.

You would be _wrong._

* * *

><p><strong> And I was just wondering...<strong>

**How long does it take you, on average, to read my chapters? **


	23. The Storyteller

**WOWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW!**

**Sorry this took so long!**

**It seems that, once and awhile, even _I_ have a _life!_**

**Hope you all haven't forgotten about this fic (I know my attention span is that short-if people didn't review I would have lost interest along time ago) and I hope this chapter at least half makes up for the delay. **

**_:) _**

* * *

><p>There was an app on Jim's phone that allowed one to spy into 221b Baker Street via a camera hidden somewhere on ceiling corner.<p>

Molly 'accidently' opened it.

_Multiple times. _

It wasn't all that _interesting_, really, Sherlock was hardly ever there and when he and/or Doctor Watson was/were still not much happened.

(The most _interesting_ thing that _did_ happen was when John Watson came upstairs to give Sherlock some file to look at and Sherlock refused to give it back. And then twenty minutes later they argued about something that he had just typed up on his laptop.)

But fearing that Sherlock had somehow deduced that she had been in contact with Jim Moriarty, Molly kept checking the video feed (as if it would_ actually_ give her a clue into Sherlock's _mind_).

She kept _watching._

One day, while Sherlock and John Watson had left town for a few days on a case, Molly watched as four men in black suits (that looked _very familiar_) marched into their flat.

_James's employees. _

They proceeded to disperse among the different rooms; Molly could see one began to tear apart the couch (and then the bookcase and then so on) as if searching for something.

_What were they looking for? _

But then, much to her wide-eyed surprise, Molly saw two more people enter 221b (who _also_ looked _very familiar_).

It was a woman, first, who looked up from her smartphone to check the room before she made way for the man behind her to climb the stairs and walk into the living room.

Molly recognized this woman as the skirt-suited woman (Molly was _not _going to call her a 'bitch') who had forced her to leave Sherlock's place awhile ago and the man as the professionally polite man who had accompanied Sherlock to the morgue early Christmas morning…

_…Sherlock's brother, Mycroft!_

Molly gasped, almost dropping Jim's phone.

So that woman and those black suited men were working with _Sherlock's_ brother?

Sherlock had mentioned to Molly the other day (thinking that he was talking to John) that his brother worked, in some capacity or other, for the government.

_Had it been Mycroft who had had Jim captured? _

(That would explain how he had the _power_ to commandeer an entire train station, having the full force of the British government behind him.)

But if Mycroft was the one who had caught Jim (Sherlock's enemy)…

…then _why _was he searching the flat of his own brother (Jim's enemy)?

Molly stared into the screen, confused.

(Well then again, Jim and his brother James didn't really get along…so it shouldn't seem too _strange_ that neither did Sherlock and his brother Mycroft…_should it_?)

(But _wait._ Weren't Sherlock and the government (and so Mycroft) supposed to be the _'good guys'_? Didn't that mean they should cooperate and do, you know…_good things_…?)

(…And what if James and Mycroft were working together?)

Before she could figure out what Mycroft's mysterious motives could be, one of his employees located Jim's hidden cameras, pulling it down from it's perch and handing it to his boss who examined it for a moment before stuffing it into his pocket.

(Jim would have made the thing 'untraceable' or something, Molly reasoned, or else she'd be the next one to get picked up by Mycroft's men for having Jim's phone.)

The video feed was black now.

But just before, in the few moments Mycroft had held the tiny camera up to his scrutiny, Molly saw that he had that same all-knowing look in his eye.

* * *

><p>"Tell me another story, James."<p>

Mother could recite entire books from memory, speaking in monotone, without intonation or facial expression, as if she had no idea what the words she said meant.

(Oh but she would _read_, when father was around, cuddling Jimmy close to her and in the jovial melody of her voice the stories would become _real_.)

"No."

"Read me one, then?"

"Jimmy, you know how to read."

And he had known for four years now, having learned he was just three.

For Jimmy's own protection James had built him a 'playpen', surrounding him with walls of stacked books on all four sides, to hold him when mother wouldn't (couldn't) and father wasn't there.

He had never expected to return home from school and see little Jimmy there, reading from some novel (picked up at a church sale) aloud to mother who parroted back the paragraphs, neither of them seeming to _understand_ what they were saying.

"It's not the same when I read as when you read…or when mummy reads."

And it really wasn't.

"Ask _her_, then."

Oh, James, don't be _cruel. _

"She's with the Numbers. She can't."

Mother was gone.

Father was gone.

Father was gone and so mother was gone.

"Does that make you sad?"

"…I don't _think_ so. I'm not sure."

"What do you _feel_?"

"_Nothing_…"

"Pretend, then."

"…the stories, James…?"

"Yes?"

"They're not _real_, right? None of them are _true_…"

"_Right._ They're not true."

"Then that makes them _lies_, doesn't it."

(Children would never _understand_ that nothing is ever so absolute.)

"Not everything that isn't true is a lie, Jimmy."

"Then what _is_ a lie?"

"_Anything_ can be a lie and _anything_ can be true… _if you tell it right_. Truth and lies are _nothing_. All that counts… is _believability_."

* * *

><p>And when the lights came on in the dark interrogation room, a week later, Mycroft could see the white walls painted with the name.<p>

_Sherlock. _

(Sherlock. sherlock. Sherlock. SHERLOCK. Sherlock. sHeRlOcK. Sherlock. ShErLoCk. Sherlock.)

Each repetition, (varying in angle and size, each drawn with care), occupied its own space on the canvas—none of the names overlapped.

How Jim Moriarty had accomplished this 'masterpiece' (in the darkness without any paint or paintbrush) Mycroft did not know.

(And there wasn't much that Mycroft Holmes did not know.)

But Moriarty had done it.

It was almost like _black magic_…

And the names:

Sherlock. sherlock. Sherlock. SHERLOCK. Sherlock. sHeRlOcK. Sherlock. ShErLoCk. Sherlock.

_Sherlock. _

They were like a _warning._

Foreshadowing for the troubles to come, black clouds gathering in the blue sky—threatening (promising) rainfall.

Mycroft took a deep breath and then opened the door to the cell.

Moriarty smiled at him.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes!" he greeted, "I was expecting your visit any day now! Don't you just_ love_ what I've done with the place?"

Mycroft glanced around the room and then rumpled his nose in disgust.

"Graffiti." He sniffed.

"Or, _modern art_, one could say." Moriarty grinned, "What's the difference, really?"

"_Indeed_." Mycroft couldn't help but smile, however falsely (sadly), "Both are tasteless, classless…but only one defaces government property."

It had been a mistake, of course, agreeing with Moriarty.

He started into one of his snickering fits again, going so far as to bend over and slap a knee.

"You know, Mr. Holmes." He sighed when he was finally finished, "I'm really beginning enjoy these chats we have about the arts, about life…we don't always see eye to eye but we do still have that one important thing in common and that's all that counts…so, 'Mikey'…_Friends?_"

Moriarty extended a hand for Mycroft to shake.

Mycroft folded his arms (a little too defensively).

"People like us don't have 'friends'." He stated.

"Ah, I understand…so nothing _personal_, then?" Moriarty interpreted, retracting his hand and then using it to slick back his brown hair.

"Of course not." Mycroft feigned, moving his mouth into a position similar to a smile.

Moriarty mimicked it.

And then, again, _he_ _bared his teeth. _

"So I suppose your setting me free now…" he began, casually, "…so that I'll eventually lead you back to the source of the code you so desperately _want_."

"Astute as always, Mr. Moriarty." Mycroft nodded.

"Well," Jim shrugged, heading past Mycroft towards the open door, "A deals a deal."

Mycroft followed him out into the hall, watching him (eyes a bit wider than normal in mild surprise).

Anthea was there, smartphone in hand.

"Mr. Moriarty." She addressed.

"Yes, dear?" Moriarty asked.

"We will provide you with discreet transportation back to London." Anthea told him, looking down at her phone.

"_Thanks_… but _no thanks_." Moriarty decline, "I'll find my own way home."

How Jim Moriarty would accomplish this, finding his way home (when he did not even know where he was or how he had gotten there, being blindfolded), Mycroft did not know.

(And there was not much Mycroft Holmes didn't know.)

But Jim would do it.

Just like _black magic._

* * *

><p>He'd find his own way home, Jim had told them.<p>

But _'home'_…where _was_ 'home'?

Did he even_ have_ one?

(He didn't even have a_ Holmes_ yet, but he was working on that…)

Homes were so _boring_…so _normal_…

So…

(what was that word Mycroft had used again?)

(…'Ordinary'…?)

…_Ordinary_…

(_Yes_, 'ordinary'. Ordinary because even saying 'normal' now was too _normal_…too _ordinary._ And 'ordinary' was a much more interesting word.)

Being trapped in that _dark room all alone_ (oh, what a poor baby he was) had given Jim time to _think._

_A lot_ of time.

And during his deep ponderings, pacing around in the darkness, Jim had come up with a_ plan_.

A devious, devious plan…a plan so devious that Jim couldn't help but _snicker_ when thinking about.

It was _perfect._

Mycroft had been 'dropping hints' throughout their entire conversation; references to numbers, math, computers, money…

('mathematical constant' 'twenty' 'fourteen' 'polymath' 'rich' 'machine' 'programmed')

…trying to see if Jim would have a _reaction_. If he would somehow 'give away' the code with his facial expression.

When Jim didn't react, that, of course, 'gave away' that Jim wasn't the one who had created the code.

Which, in turn, lead to Mycroft being forced to set Jim free, as he needed to find out the creator _and_ the code.

But also, coloring his monologue were other little _motifs _that Mycroft (probably without even realizing it) had been telling his tale with…

('different' 'same' 'Game' 'played' 'power' 'gods' 'fall')

…the very metaphors that painted the portrait of Jim and Sherlock's life.

It was _true art_, griot Mycroft's story had been.

And because _'truth is stranger than fiction' _and _'life imitates art' _is what they always say…

(And whoever 'they' are, they're always _right_.)

…Jim resolved to make Mycroft's story_ real_…or, perhaps, _fictionalize_ reality (either one was true) so that everything would be _perfect. _

Beginning.

Middle.

And _End. _

All the characters (heroes, villains, supporting) were already in place and the rising action was already well developed.

All that was left was the climax (and Jim was _not_ going to snicker at this word) and then, the falling action.

That was the way stories were told.

The _rise _and then the _fall._

And there always _did_ have to be a fall.

Because they (whoever 'they' are) say that _'all good things must come to an end'_ (—and they're always _right_)…

…and all good stories must come to and end, lest they become bad.

And _boring._

'_Time flies when you're having fun'_ they always say (and 'they' are always _righ_t).

Jim was certainly having fun.

But even he knew that it couldn't last forever, this 'Game' of his with Sherlock Holmes.

Sooner or later, it would get _boring._

And so, Jim had to _end it_ before it did. Give it the _perfect_, 'fairytale ending' he and Sherlock's story deserved.

All that _began_ with Mycroft.

And the code.

_And James Moriarty._

(After all,_ 'a deal is a deal' _they say.)

* * *

><p>"<em>Stop."<em> Sebastian Moran said as he got out of the taxi parked in the middle of the road, blocking Jim's path, "You _can't _be here."

(_'Here'_ was miles away from where his employer James Moriarty was but still a location that could possibly be used by Mycroft Holmes to _deduce_ the direction Jim was headed in _and so_ whom he was going to see.)

"It's a free country!" Jim countered, "…well at least I thought so, anyway, until Mr. Holmes arrested and detained me indefinitely, employing various illegal methods of torture…hey, why did that all happen to me, again? Oh yeah. Because J—"

"_Don't_ use the name."

"Oh, don't be so paranoid, _Sebby-boy_. It's not like anyone can actually _hear_ us. We're in the middle of nowhere!"

(And they _were_…

…Jim had walked along the train tracks through kilometers of countryside towards London (although London had not been his destination and so when he saw certain 'landmarks' he would veer off on course to his intended target)…

…But _somehow_ Moran had found him and driven up the long country road to meet him.)

Jim, 'happy' to be 'free', spun circularly in the fields (seeds just being planted in March), his last sentencing shout that echoed in the early spring air.

He fell backwards into the grasses below him, closing his eyes and waving him limbs as if he was making a snow-angel.

"They _can _hear us." Moran stated, pulling Jim up sharply by the collar and glaring at glaring at him, trying hard not to _shake _him, "And they _are _watching. You _know _this…They followed you and you know it. They're not far behind. You're trying to set my employer up."

"He did the same thing to me." Jim reasoned, wrenching himself from Moran's grasp and then dusting off his shoulders.

"You did it to yourself." Moran corrected, "_He_ tried to_ warn_ you. _He_ tried to _protect_ you."

(And he was _right_, of course.)

Jim raised an eyebrow and changed the subject.

"What are you even doing all the way out here?" Jim inquired, leaning an elbow against the taxi and stifling a yawn, "You follow my br—I mean _'our friend'_ _everywhere?..._Even out to his little place in the country that _'nobody' _knows about, where he goes to _think?_...I mean I figured you two were _'close'_ and all, but,_ really_, what could he _possibly_ need _you_ all the way out_ here_ for, anyway?_ Taking care of his plumbing?"_

"For protection." Moran answered, face unaffected by Jim's comments, "And to keep _you _away."

"_Sure," _Jim grinned slyly, words long and drawn out, "_Right_."

"I'll give you a ride back to London." Moran said, gesturing to the cab, "Get in."

"No thanks." Jim yawned, "I'm not going to London…"

"_Yes,_ you _are_." Moran declared, frustration beginning to seep into his words despite his attempts to keep it out of his voice.

"…_Nope_." Jim denied, elongating the 'oh' sound.

And that's when Moran realized it was because he was_ tired_, not because he was just playing the disobedient child.

Sighing and_ almost_ rolling his eyes, Moran opened the door to the back of the taxi.

"Yes, you are." He repeated and- _as lightly as possible_—shoved Jim inside, quickly slamming the door behind him, then getting into the driver's seat and pressing the locks for the entire vehicle.

Jim didn't put up much of a fight.

And on the long ride back to London he slept.

* * *

><p>"Where is he going, sir?"<p>

"Into that building. To that woman's flat."

Mycroft (who normally never did the 'legwork' himself) and Anthea stood at the window, binoculars up to their eyes, watching Moriarty get out of a taxi and walk into an apartment building.

It was all positively _archaic._

The lack of cameras and computers in favor of physically following their target and just watching.

Now that there was an all-access code to _everything_, cameras and computers were no longer _safe._

_Jim Moriarty's black magic. _

"The woman from the station?"

"Yes."

"Do you think she's the one who created the code?

"No."

"Why not, sir?"

Anthea turned away from the window, lowering her binoculars, to face her employer.

Mycroft continued to watch through his binoculars even though Moriarty had long become_ invisible_, somewhere inside Molly Hooper's flat, out of sight.

"_Because_ if that woman had been the one to create the code then Moriarty would not have 'agreed' to just lead us right to her."

"So she's a _diversion_, then?"

Taking a breath and turning towards Anthea, Mycroft composed himself as if he was going to deliver a _divine revelation_, and his statement was going to be some brilliant (even more so than usual), secret _insight_ into the unknowable human mind (no—_heart_).

"Yes…" he said, "for us, _and_ for himself..."

* * *

><p>It was a day and a half after Mycroft had confiscated the hidden camera that Molly returned from work to her flat to find Jim Moriarty sleeping on her couch.<p>

She didn't even notice him at first, she made it all the way into the kitchen to see the empty vase on the counter and then she _knew._

Molly thought Jim would sneak up on her, emerge from the shadows like a demon just so he could laugh at her when she screamed…but no, there he was, stretched out with Toby curled up on his chest.

Eyes closed, he almost looked_ peaceful_…

It was the first time, Molly realized, that she had ever seen him without some extreme expression on his face.

She stared at him for along moment, from across the room, not speaking, not moving, not even _breathing_ because she didn't want to wake him.

But it was already too late.

Jim (a heavy sleeper unless it was quiet) had heard her before she even opened the door.

He opened an eye.

"_Molly_." He greeted, the usual grin in his voice and returning to his lips.

"J-Jim!" She squeaked in surprise, even thought he hadn't _actually_ surprised her and she was already looking right at him.

Perhaps it was just out of _habit _that her eyes widened and her mouth formed an 'o' and she startled a little whenever she saw him.

She wasn't scared of him, really, or shocked to see him (not anymore) but she knew she should be and so she_ pretended_.

However, she _did_ have an _excuse_, this time.

Jim_ had_ been dragged away by (James? Mycroft? James _and_ Mycroft?) professional-looking men in black suits, shoved onto a train (along with a hundred people to prevent him from a escaping) that took him who-knows-where and then been missing for the past three weeks.

It wasn't like she had actually expected to see him again.

"I let myself in." Jim yawned, stretching, "Hope you don't mind."

"…I don't." Molly responded, walking around the counter and towards him, staring at him like she didn't believe he was really there.

Jim sat up, displacing the cat who hopped down to the floor and followed Jim as he started around the sofa towards Molly.

"_God,_ I've been here _all day _just _waiting_ for you to get back...it was_ so boring_..." he groaned, "...I used your shower-hope you don't mind that _either…_ and then think I might've fallen asleep."

Molly just stared at him.

Jim looked as if he hadn't shaved in days (no-_weeks_), changed clothes or even_ slept._ He had dark clouds hanging under his eyes (no rain, though, no _tears_) and wasn't even wearing any shoes.

And yet he was just standing there, nonchalant and grinning as ever.

He raised an eyebrow after she had been staring too long.

"What... happened to you...?" she asked, concerned but cautious.

"Do we really have to talk about this _now?_" Jim inquired, rolling his eyes as he approached her, "There are so many_ better_ things we could be doing..."

"I just—you…" Molly stammered but trailed off.

Toby was rubbing against her legs and then Jim's arms were around her, pulling her close while Toby circled them both.

Jim obviously didn't want to _talk_ (about what had happened to him (or about anything)) Molly 'deduced'.

Because he was kissing her.

It was different than at King's Cross…less _dramatic_.

Molly broke away, suddenly—but only as far as Jim's arms around her waist allowed her.

"I have your phone!" she declared, pulling it out of her labcoat pocket, "I kept it _safe_!...It's been getting calls and texts nonstop, I don't know if that's normal…"

Molly placed the mobile-phone, already vibrating again, into Jim's hands the same way he had given it to her.

He refused it; pushing it away and Molly back towards the kitchen counter that he then placed it, past her, on.

"_Not. now_." Jim said and brought his lips back to Molly's before she could protest.

And so they ignored the buzzing on the countertop.

* * *

><p>"…It was Sherlock's brother who took you, wasn't it, <em>Mycroft<em>…?"

"_Very good_, Molly! You're becoming quite the little _detective_, aren't you? How did you go about 'deducing' _that_?"

Afterwards, they were lying in her bed.

'It' had been different this time, yes.

_This_ time he hadn't _left. _

"I—"

"No _wait._ Don't tell me… _You checked my phone_…"

"…Yes…I'm sorry… I just-"

Molly was _demurely _beneath the blankets and Jim was _deliberately not_, 'making a show' of_ himself_ they way he 'made a show' of _everything. _

(…_or_…)

Molly, shy as always and _ashamed without excuses_, was _hiding _herself under the covers, while Jim was making no unnecessary effort to conceal what had already been seen anyway.

(_Both were correct_.)

"You're not one of those crazy, stalker, paranoid girlfriends, are you, Molly? Always jealous, always _suspicious_… Because I do _not_ need another one of _those._ Girls like _that_ get on my _nerves. _And you do—"

"No I'm not—I would never—I just—I was worried—I didn't know-!"

"_Jesus_, Molly, I was _just kidding_. Calm down…"

Jim was grinning at her panicked, stuttered exclamation.

He just _loved _to see Molly get all _flustered, _she knew.

(…is that why she kept doing it?)

"_I'm sorry_."

"You have_ nothing_ to apologize for."

He was talking to her like she was just a child.

Jim knew Molly, who nobody ever took seriously, _hated_ it.

(But _she_ should have known that he hated how she always, always apologized.)

"Where did they take you, those men? How did you get out?"

"I dunno…_a kingdom far, far away_, I guess. And they let me out… _In that order_."

"What? They just '_let' _you out?"

"Yeah."

"…_Why?"_

Jim shook his head and shrugged.

"I thought we weren't going to talk about this…"

"What if they—"

"They're_ not_ going to come here and take me again. Or you. _No one_ is."

"But James said—"

"_James can kiss my ass!_… I'll be talking to him tomorrow."

"...okay…"

"Any_ more_ questions? Concerns?"

"Well, I was just, um, wondering and all…why do you two have the same name?"

Jim snorted, jerking his head back.

"_Mummy was a whore._ It was the only way she could convince daddy we were _his._"

Molly tried not to drop her jaw, at this.

It was just another one of Jim's _jokes_ again; his _strange, cruel_ sense of humor was nothing she wasn't _used to._

Of course, though, it wouldn't be _polite_ to _laugh_…

And so she widened her mouth and eyes anyway.

"…or maybe…" Jim added, closing his eyes and leaning back comfortably with his arms folded behind him, "…she was just trying to stock up on something she was afraid she'd _lose_…have a bunch of extra _James Moriarty's_ running around, just in case, one day, _daddy didn't come back_."

"How many are there, then? Just you and your brother…or have you got a lot of brothers all named James?"

It was _supposed_ to be a _joke._

"Just me and James…there used to be another one, though, a long time ago…"

Molly should have _known better_ than to make _jokes._

"…I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that. _I hate it._ '_I'm sorry'_, _'I'm sooo sorry'_…They're just so damn _annoying._ It's like you're apologizing for being _alive_! For _existing_…I don't _ever _want to hear you say those two words again, do you hear me, Molly?"

Jim was sitting up now, waving one arm wildly in expression and jabbing a finger towards Molly's face.

Molly gasped, startling and scooting away from him (how she knew should have been) instinctively.

Another one of his outbursts; these were nothing Molly wasn't _used to. _

And yet, her eyes still widened in surprise and her mouth opened in shock.

(She was so close to saying it, too, saying _'those two words again' _instinctively (because out of habit she apologized for everything she did just like she was apologizing for being _alive_, for _existing._))

But as soon as she did Jim grabbed both sides of her face and pulled it to him so he could kiss her before she could.

* * *

><p>"He's going into the library, sir. We should send someone inside to follow him and see what he's doing there."<p>

"No. He would notice."

"Well we can't just pull security footage or anything, now that he's got that code, he'll just delete it. And whoever created that code will know we're looking for him…so what do we do? What_ can_ we do?"

"…_nothing._"

* * *

><p>Jim was surprised when the taxi (who Sebastian Moran 'just happened' to be the driver of) pulled up in front of his favorite 'hang-out', King's Cross train station.<p>

But when Jim got out of the car and started towards the station, Moran rolled down the window, stuck his head out and said, "No, the library," before driving away.

And so Jim went there.

He strolled up and down different floors and different isles of shelves, occasionally picking up some book and flipping through a couple pages before tossing it aside and walking on.

Jim finally found James in one of the private reading rooms, a stack of texts piled around him and a wall between them once Jim sat down at the table across from him.

_And it was so quiet. _

"_You_ contacted _me_." Jim stated, the silence and the suspense _killing_ him, "…Just _what_ do you want _this_ time?"

"Do you remember," James began, from behind the books, "when I used to read you stories—"

"And tell me lies?" Jim completed, "_Yes_."

"_Good._" James continued, "Then you should remember _why_ I told you these stories."

"I'm sorry," Jim yawned, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the table, "but I seem to have forgotten."

"Let me remind you, then." James said, "_Stories. have. morals_."

"_I_ don't." Jim snorted, "…_we_ don't."

"These _do_." James declared, gesturing to the books which he picked up one by one, showing their covers and titles to Jim, "The story of Echo and Narcissus. Its moral; don't fall in love with someone who doesn't _notice _you, and, don't fall in love with your own reflection…"

Jim rolled his eyes.

"So I see you're on speaking terms with Miss Adler, again." He 'deduced'…

…_incorrectly._

"As far as I knew...The Woman was _dead_…" James replied, stroking his beard, "…_Interesting_ to know that she is still able to 'speak'."

"She's been dead before, you know," Jim shrugged, "And you'd be _amazed_ at what she's still able to do…"

Jim raised his two eyebrows two times suggestively and then it was James's turn to roll his eyes.

He took a breath and continued:

"The story of Prometheus. It's moral; don't take what doesn't belong to you, don't play with fire, and_ don't_ cross the_ Gods_…The story of Icarus. _Its_ moral; don't fly too close to the sun. You'll _burn_, you'll _fall_…"

"The story of the Little Engine That Could." Jim added, with a chuckle, "That's my favorite. _Its moral_, well, 'If at first you don't succeed, try, try again'…_crazy_, right?"

"_Insane._" James agreed, flatly.

"Kinda like shutting somebody up in a dark room, _alone_, over and over again…" Jim mused, "…and still expecting that somebody to be afraid of the dark. Afraid of being alone, afraid of the _silence_…"

James tried to look Jim in the eye but Jim looked over at the long window, watching the tables and shelves and people as if _waiting_ for something.

"No men in black suits are going to come carry _me_ away." James scoffed, "Jim, you should have _known better_ than to try and set me up. You should have learned your lesson the first time."

Jim looked back across the table at James, who he could barely see over the books.

"You of all people, _professor_, should know that I'll _never_ learn." Jim smiled, sitting back upright and sliding the offending objects of his way so that he had a clear view of who he was speaking to.

Some of the books turned diagonally, out of line, out of order (and into _chaos_).

James, stiffening, quickly returned them back to their straight, neat stack and then sat comfortably again (all is right with the world again).

"Besides, morals aren't _real." _Jim went on, "It's all just _fear._ Fear of _punishment_ for doing something 'wrong'… _No, please daddy, please mummy! Don't put me back in time out! I'm sorry! I swear I'm sorry_... It's not real. People with 'morals', 'good' people are just _scared_. Just scared little _babies_, pissing their pants, too_ afraid_ to have any _fun_…_Me_, I'm not _scared_. I'm not scared of _anything,_ big brother, not even _you_."

"You were…_once_." He James sighed, shaking his head, "And once I believed I could actually _teach_ you. That you'd actually_ learn_. But now, now I know better…And so, these stories, these _morals_, are the last pieces of _advice_ I am leaving with you. So you'd best learn these lessons, little brother and learn them well."

"You're talking you're _dying_ and these books are my only inheritance," Jim commented, "You planning on doing a _'mummy'_, James and leaving me all alone?"

"No." James stated, "And yes. _In that order_."

"…_What?_" Jim questioned, confused and taken aback.

"I'm not going to be the one to 'die', Jim." James explained, "You _are. _Jim Moriarty is going to die."

"_I,_ for one, sir, _beg to differ_." Jim countered, overly haughty and self-righteous in a way James recognized was meant to mock his demeanor.

"Jim Moriarty is going to die." James repeated, "Jim Moriarty is going to cease to exist…after years of trying to _scrub_ the old _bloodstains_ out of our name and then, once I finally did, stop you from _drowning_ it all over again …I finally learned my lesson."

"And that 'lesson' _was?_" Jim asked, an eyebrow raised.

"That you're right." James stated, "You'll never learn. And so there's really no point in my trying to teach you…Instead, from now on, you and I will have no contact—

"Like we ever _did."_

"—whatsoever. You can do what you please and I will not interfere…_just so long as do not use the name Moriarty._"

Jim rested his elbow on the table and his chin on his palm, considering James's words.

"We never really got along, did we, brother?" Jim inquired, "After all this time…why disown me _now_?"

"Because," James took a breath, "I am _done_ playing games. _You win_."

"You can't just _forfeit _like that!" Jim whined, "There's no fun in winning if your opponent just _gives up_!"

"And now you can play all the games and have all the opponents you can possibly desire and manage." James informed, "I won't stop you. You can even go after Sherlock Holmes or the entire British government and I won't stop you…as long as you don't use _my_ name…And it _is _my name, now, _all mine_…"

"_Your_ name?" Jim snapped, "_Not so_ _fast._ What if I don't _agree _to this?"

"I _will _be the only James Moriarty." James declared, "_One_ way or _another_."

"But you wouldn't kill your _only brother?_" Jim, wide-eyed, _whimpered_, "Would you, James?"

"I _wouldn't_." James confirmed, "But you're not my brother anymore."

"Then what's _my_ name?" Jim asked, "If not Jim Moriarty, if not your _brother_…_who am I?" _

"That is for you to decide, dear _boy_." James answered, "I'm done being your 'keeper'."

"_Finally_ I'm _free_!" Jim exclaimed, applauding, "_Thank you_, thank you, James for setting me free…_but there's just one problem_. I can't just change my name—_my entire identity_- like that."

"Yes you _can _and you _will_." James countered, smiling, "You have the technology, my_ code_—which is_ yours_ now, by the way, since I'm certainly not going to _share_ it and I don't take back _hand-me-downs_—and you have your _imagination._ You've _always_ been _such_ a good _liar_."

"But you've always been the better storyteller..." Jim reminded.

"Well, I'm sure you'll find a way," James said, standing up from the table to be much taller than Jim, "Like the moral of your favorite story goes, _'if at first you don't succeed, try, try again."_

With that, James Moriarty exited the reading room. Jim, too, stood and watched him walk away past the bookcases, through the long window.

Once he was gone, Jim looked back down at table, covered in books of various sizes, colors and (of course) titles, stacked squarely and neatly.

With one arm Jim swiped the wall of books, toppling their structure and sending them flying (and then falling) in all directions.

One of them, an old book of fairytales by the Grimm Brothers, landed at his feet and so he bent to pick it up.

This was one book (and so many stories) that James had actually never read to Jim.

Jim decided to check it out.

* * *

><p><strong>...ooOOOooh!<strong>

**We're almost to 'The Reichenbach Fall' episode...**

**...uh oh...**

**lol**

**Oh, _god_, the _suspense_!**

**What will happen next? **

_**Oh yeah. **_

**Jim and Sherlock _die. _**

**Pity, really, I kinda liked them...**

**...oh well. **

**_Can't wait._..or can't wait for this story to be over?**

** And do ya'll want an AU/Speculation afterwards?**


	24. Professional Pretender

**Hello, again!**

** I feel like I'm coming down with a bit of the Writer's Block flu...(pray for me not to).**

**It's not that I don't know what to write...it's just that I feel that my 'muse' has left me (and I am NOT amused (lol see what I did there?)). **

**Well, anyway...**

**Here's the next chapter! **

* * *

><p>"Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, Cry 'Caesar!' Speak; Caesar is turned to hear…<em>Caesar is turned to hear<em>…Moriarty! You gonna read your line or not?"

"Huh?" Jim looked up and around the classroom, still groggy from dozing (and drooling) on his desk, and saw all his classmates staring at him expectantly, "…Where are we again?"

"Act One, Scene Two." The teacher sighed, rolling his eyes as Jim began to flip through the pages of his school-issued book, "You're the Soothsayer. Your line is 'Beware the ides of March'."

"…Beware the ides of March." Jim droned, reading from the text.

He was fifteen, the new kid in class (and in school as he couldn't have very well stayed at the school he had killed a fellow student at, now could he?) and hated Shakespeare…

…not to mention being given such a tiny part in the classroom read-aloud.

"You have to say it better than that." The boy playing Julius Caesar declared, also rolling his eyes at Jim, "And louder, too."

"_God."_ Jim groaned, now rolling _his_ eyes, "Do I _have _to?"

"Try it again, Mr. Moriarty." The teacher instructed.

"Beware the—" Jim began but changed his mind mid sentence, standing up and slamming his book shut down onto his desk, "You know what? _Fuck this_. I'm tired of this Shakespeare bullshit. He's not that great, you know, but everybody keeps _worshiping_ him like he's some kinda _god_ or something. The only reason he's even famous anymore is 'cause he's always been and everybody's just too damn stubborn and _scared_ to change!"

The fifteen or so teenagers all turned their heads to gape in shock at Jim's iconoclastic monologue, some of them offended...and others quite appreciative.

"Shakespeare is the greatest writer in the English language!" Julius Caesar countered, also standing, "You're _stupid_ if you can't see it! I mean, who do you think you are, anyway? It's not like _you_ could do any better…I bet you can't even think of anyone better either!"

"_Sure I can_...there's um…" Jim replied, folding his arms and then glancing up at the ceiling as if searching his mind, "…Oscar Wilde."

"He's not better." Caesar shook his head.

"_Yes_ he is." Jim insisted, smiling, "_He's Irish_."

"He was gay, that's what he was." Some other kid in the class spoke up, "A godless homosexual sodomite."

"Maybe that's why you like him." Caesar sneered.

"_Maybe it is_." Jim winked at him, causing him to blush in embarrassment (and perhaps something else too) and flinch.

"Both of you sit down! That is _enough_." The teacher stated, slapping his book on his desk to get everyone's attention, "And Mr. Moriarty… _see me after class_."

* * *

><p><strong>Text Message Inbox: <strong>

_I have a crime I need your help with._

_It'll make us both very rich._

_I'm planning on robbing the Bank of England. _

_Contact my pointman for more info. _

**####**

'_key to the city'? _

_Mr. M what r u talking about? _

**####**

_Sir we have your dry cleaning ready for you now. _

_We have no address on file to have it delivered and so you can come pick it up at your convenience. _

**####**

_I heard you were kidnapped a few weeks ago._

_If that is true this message is now to your captors:_

_I'll pay any ransom for you to set JM free alive. _

_Reply back to this number ASAP. _

_Thank you. _

**####**

_My people say you have some kind of 'all-access' code._

_We need it to shut down those websites that keep uploading our copyrighted content._

_We are willing to pay whatever you ask. _

_-CNET _

**####**

_Where are you?_

…

_Reply right now! _

…

_Where are you? _

…

_Are you alright?_

…

_Where are you?_

…

_Don't try to hide from me you owe me money I'll find you! _

_**####**_

_Dear Mr. M, _

_A guard smuggled me this phone into my cell. _

_Can you please come break me out of prison?_

_I'll pay you as soon as you get me out! _

_Thanks! _

**####**

_I'll buy that code from you any price. _

_I need it so I can transfer ownership of Apple, Microsoft, Google and Wikipedia to myself._

_Finally I will own the entire internet! _

_-Mark _

**####**

_Mr. M I know you are in possession of a certain, shall we say, 'backstage pass'. _

_Now I am not asking you to give this to me, I understand that it is far too valuable to just 'donate' and being the starving artist that I am I cannot afford such luxury. _

_However…if you would just be so kind as to use this so-called 'backstage pass' to disable the security system of the National Gallery than you would have my utmost gratitude. _

_Thank you, _

_Signor A. Ricoletti_

**####**

_What exactly did you mean by 'access to all the money and information' ?_

_I'm interested. _

_Please reply. _

**####**

_Sir will you be picking up your dry cleaning any time soon? It's been two weeks. _

**####**

_Greeting from Albania, _

_We can't steal money from Greece anymore…because they don't actually HAVE any anymore. _

_Now my gang will be needing a new source of income. _

_I am sending a representative to your country to purchase from you this code I have heard so much about. _

**####**

_I am willing to pay whatever amount of money you request for that code. _

_But first you have to prove to me that this isn't another one of your tricks. _

**####**

_My ship was just taken over by Somalian pirates. They stole my whole shipment of illegal guns! _

_Help me! _

_**####**_

_Mr. M_

_You seem like the kind of man who understands the need for freedom and is tired of the tyranny of rich and powerful over ordinary citizens of the world. _

_Therefore you should be willing to lend us your code so that we can shut down Wallstreet. _

_For good. _

_Thanks, _

_OWS_

**####**

_Hey, J is it true you've been arrested? _

_LOL! _

_I knew it would happen eventually! _

_Don't snitch on me or anything... _

**####**

_Did you know they shot Lewis dead a couple weeks ago?_

_You should have helped him! _

**####**

_All this time you have a code like this…_

…_and I get in trouble for hacking phones? _

_I want that code, JM. _

_- KRM, NC _

**####**

_MR. M_

_We saw the message those unhappy urban campers sent to you. _

_Although we sympathize, we suggest that you 'lend' us the code instead. _

_So that we can stop the US government's attempts to silence the internet via the SOPA/PIPA legislation. _

_We will disable all electronics in the USA in protest of the seizure of Megaupload. _

…

_jk lol_

_We r will does it 4 da lulz _

_-Anonymous _

**####**

_I tried 2 meet u the train station but it was closed 4 renovations or sumthin and I cudnt go n._

_I kept callin but u didnt pick up._

_R u dead or something? _

_Plz respond!_

**####**

_I heard you screwed my assistant, killed her, and SPILLED MY BEST LIQOUR!_

_I'll be speaking to our mutual associate about this. _

**####**

_I went on the other night and determined that I'm the great great great great great great great great grand niece, twice removed, of King Henry VII's son—thought to be stillborn—by Anne Boleyn. _

_That makes me royalty! _

_Steal the crown jewels for me? _

_-The New Prince _

**####**

_Sir, your dry cleaning is still ready to be picked up._

_We've been holding it for almost a month now._

* * *

><p>Jim was back on Molly's couch, every so often changing his reclining position or getting up and pacing around the room while the television blared and hummed in the background.<p>

Now he was scrolling through all the text messages, calls and voicemails he had missed while he was 'away'.

Everybody was on about that stupid code, like he was actually going to give it to them.

…_boring_…

And when his contacts weren't yapping about the code, they were begging for his help with their various criminal exploits.

…_boring…_

This was why, Jim remembered, he had decided to _quit_ the 'criminal consulting' business.

Normal criminals were just so _petty _and _boring_ and _annoying_, he 'just couldn't take it anymore'!

_And as for Sherlock Holmes…_

Even the brilliant detective himself was getting ever-so _boring_…In fact, he wasn't even here in London for Jim to _play_ with now that Jim was actually able to 'come out and play' with his (former now disowned) older brother being a _spoilsport_.

…_BORING!_

It took all of Jim's self control to keep from throwing his cellphone across the living room towards the kitchenette so that it knocked a cereal box off the top of the refrigerator…

…and so he threw the remote, instead.

Toby jumped up and off of the table he had been snoozing on with a start upon hearing the crash and then the dried flakes of some store-brand meant to be healthy (and prevent constipation) scatter across the tiled floor.

This proved an adequate distraction to Jim…_for about ten seconds_.

_Where was Molly?_

She had gone to work that morning (nervous as ever that someone she ran into at the hospital (or even some random person on the street) would look at her and magically just know who was staying at her flat), now at least twenty-four hours ago (actually only around six), leaving Jim to fight against the _demons of boredom_ all alone.

Then Jim had gone to his little 'family disunion' with (the man who was now the _only_) James Moriarty…

…But that had only lasted around thirty minutes and there was only so much fun Jim could have wandering around a library so that left things up to _Molly_ to _entertain_ him.

_No. _

This was_ silly._

Jim had loads of ways to distract himself that didn't involve Molly Hooper.

He'd done well for himself without her before, he could surely do it again.

…so _why_ was he just _sitting there_, idly, _waiting_ for her?

* * *

><p>When she first returned him Molly thought Jim was <em>gone.<em>

She called out his name three times (the third time much louder than she thought was _safe_…What if people heard? What if they _knew_?) and received no response.

Molly didn't see him in any of the rooms (including the kitchen where she had to clean up some spilled cereal Toby must have knocked over).

And just when she had decided he had left (her(again)) and was putting the dry cleaning she had picked up for him away in her closet…

…Jim jumped out at her.

Molly shrieked and jumped up. Tripping over her own two feet, she started to fall backwards when Jim caught her arm, pulling her back upright.

"Boo." He whispered.

"My _god_, Jim," Molly sighed, laughing (both out of nervousness and relief), trying to calm herself, "You really _scared_ me...how long were you in there, anyway?"

"…I dunno." Jim shrugged (and he really didn't but it had felt like days).

"I didn't think it would take this long, picking up your dry cleaning." Molly added, lifting up the clean suits encased in protective plastic to show him, "I also went to the shops and got a few things for you too that I thought you might need."

She reached past him and into the closet, hanging the dry-cleaned clothes up next to her own, Jim (impolitely(romantically?)) not moving out of her way, making sure they were only _centimeters_ apart and she could feel him _breathing_, hot on her neck.

Then, Jim released her arm and grabbed the plastic bag from her hands, quickly striding away from her to dump its contents onto her perfectly made bed.

A 'few things' that she had thought he 'might need'.

_Razors, shaving cream, non-feminine smelling shampoo and deodorant,_ (at least they weren't store-brand)…_condoms_…

Jim grinned.

"A bit presumptive, are we?" He turned to Molly, holding them up with one hand.

She couldn't even meet his eye, face immediately bright pink.

"…I just thought it would be, you know…_safer_…" Molly explained, watching her shoes and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

(And she was _right_, too. She _did _have a medical degree, after all. And even though she worked at the hospital that didn't mean she could keep giving herself secret pregnancy tests in the bathroom…and what if they turned up _positive _one day? What was she gonna do _then_?...give herself an 'emergency _abortion_'?...She didn't even want to _think_ about that…)

"And was it 'safer', Molly, to go all the way to store near Sherlock's place?" Jim asked, bending to move his head under Molly's and meet her eye, "I thought you were trying _not_ to be recognized. That seems a bit _dangerous_, don't you think? A real 'walk on the wild side', I'd say..."

"How did you—" Molly started, looking up, and then remembering that there was no_ point _in even asking.

"_Easy_." Jim snorted, "_Too easy_…I mean, of course, you didn't want him to know _who_ this all was for, but you_ did_ want him to _see_…You wanted Sherlock to _see _what you were buying and _deduce_ that you indeed _did_ have a _'boyfriend'_…Prove him _wrong_. Maybe make him _jealous_…"

Molly sighed (_guiltily_).

"It's only cause the other day—and your phone kept ringing—" She stammered, "And I said it was my boyfriend but he didn't _believe_ me—he _never _believes me-I just wanted him to think—_I didn't want him to figure out_-"

Molly sighed again (_Excuses, excuses_).

"You know Sherlock doesn't _do_ the shopping, right?" Jim reminded, "Won't be bothered with something so _boring_…He sends his _trained puppy_ to the store for him. And they're not even in town today, they're out _somewhere_, on _some case_ probably…"

"…_Oh_." Molly acknowledged, once again feeling _stupid._

"_God_…it's all so _predictable_…!" Jim groaned, flopping back onto the bed, making the items bounce, "…all so _boring_!"

Molly approached him, cautiously.

"What do you mean?" she inquired (because she didn't think that he could _possibly_ be referring to Sherlock, _Sherlock Holmes,_ his _'ultimate enemy'_ as _'boring'_).

"Sherlock Holmes!" Jim shouted, suddenly sitting up, grabbing the heaviest item in reach (the bottle of shaving cream) and throwing it sharply at the closet across from him.

Molly cringed and ducked out of its way.

She then hurried around to the other side of the bed so that she was out of Jim's target range.

Jim stood up.

At first Molly thought he was going to actually (politely) pick up what he had thrown and maybe even _apologize_…but instead he pulled one of his suits out of the closet and started to change into… _in front of her._

Molly (politely(needlessly) averted her eyes.

"He's just so_ boring_ now…so _normal_…" Jim continued, muttering more to himself than to Molly, as he pulled off his jeans and cast them aside, "Doing the _same_ thing everyday, going out on his little _'cases'_, always the _same_, always _too easy_…living in the _same_ place with the _same _person…It's all _his _fault, that damn doctor!" he pulled on his suit pants, "Ever since Sherlock moved in with_ him_ he's been getting steadily more _boring_. Going lower and lower on the 'scale of _interesting_'…now he's practically _flat-lining_…I mean, what's the _point_ in being _alive_, anyway, if you're just _living_?"

Molly, sitting turned away from him on the other side of the bed, watched him out of the corner of one eye, trying desperately not to turn her head in his direction.

He was changing shirts now, taking off one and then buttoning another, and then he was putting on the jacket.

He didn't even look in the mirror.

He didn't even _need _to.

And he didn't even look at _her_, he just stalked out of her bedroom once he was properly dressed.

She hopped up and followed him.

She couldn't_ believe_ that he was _really_ saying this. That he _actually_ thought _Sherlock Holmes_ was _boring_ now!

And if Jim thought _Sherlock_ was 'boring'...

…what did that mean for poor, _normal_, Molly Hooper?

"I'm going to _kill_ him, you know." Jim declared, turning to face Molly as if he was answering her question, "I said I'd _burn_ him. I _promised _him…and I _always_ keep my promises, right, _Molly_?"

"…_Right_…" Molly agreed, unsure of what else to say.

"I'm_ allowed_ to, now, too." Jim added, leaning against the kitchen counter, "James has _set me free_. 'The dog's off the chain'…"

"What?" Molly questioned, once again thoroughly confused as to what Jim was talking about.

"He disowned me." Jim stated, "_My own brother_—well I guess he's not _that_ anymore, now…He's promised, from now on, to stay _out_ of my business…just so long as I don't use the name 'Moriarty'…"

"…What are you gonna _do_, then?" Molly asked.

"…Oh, I don't know… _k__ill myself, _probably…" Jim said, nonchalantly.

Molly's eyes widened and her jaw dropped.

Jim grinned.

"_What?!"_ She exclaimed again.

"I need a new name…" He explained, " 'Jim Moriarty' must _cease to exist_, as James so expertly put it, _'Jim Moriarty is going to die'_…"

"Oh." Molly sighed in relief, "You didn't mean it literally—"

"_Yes I did_." Jim corrected, "I _did_, Molly, I _did_... Jim Moriarty is going to_ die_…_and so is Sherlock Holmes._ We're _both_ going to_ die_…I can't go on_ living_ like this, I just _can't_...it's just so _boring_, _I'm so bored_…I'm doing him a _favor_, really, putting him out of his _misery_…putting us _both_ out of our misery…The Game is almost _over _now, what _else _is there to _live_ for…"

"You're _not _going to kill yourself, _don't _kill yourself!" Molly cried, "That's _crazy_!"

"…that a problem?" Jim demanded sharply.

_"Yes!"_ Molly affirmed, "…You can't just go around _killing people_, killing _yourself_! Don't start this stuff with Sherlock all over again. There's no way it can end well-"

"It's not _supposed _to 'end well'!" Jim interrupted, shouting, "That's the _point_, you _idiot_!"

"How's it supposed to end, then?" Molly asked, trying to remain calm and unaffected by Jim's shouts and insults.

"I'm going to _win._" Jim answered, "I'm going to finally_ prove_, once and for all, that I'm_ smarter_ than him…"

"And _then what_?" Molly inquired, voice harsher than normal.

"We both die." Jim stated, "The Games's over. There's nothing left to live for…"

_(Nothing left to live for?_ Nothing _at all?_...and to think that Molly had thought, just for a moment, that Jim might have actually…)

"…no!" was all Molly managed to say.

Jim shook his head in disgust, chuckling darkly.

"I shouldn't have expected _you _to _understand_..." He spat.

"But you said—" Molly began, recalling what he had said about her not being a 'bug'…if she didn't _care. _

(But she just couldn't help it, really, _caring_…)

"I threw them out, you know." Jim told her, picking up the empty vase from the countertop, "Do you know _why_ I did that, Molly? _Why?..._Because they were _dead!_ Dried out, faded. There was no _point_ in keeping them in there anymore once they died, _no point at all_…So why did you, Molly, why did you keep those dead flowers in this vase?"

He shook it in her face, she cringed and turned away.

"Because they were pretty…" Molly whispered, weakly.

"…oh, cause _they were pretty_." Jim repeated, setting the vase back down and laughing, "How _adorable._ They _were_ pretty…before they _died!_ Once they were _dead_, there was _no point_ in keeping them. But you did anyway—"

"Because you gave them to me!" Molly declared, abruptly.

Jim continued to laugh at her.

"_Exactly."_ He sneered, "You kept them because_ I_ gave them to you. You're so…so…_sentimental._ It's _pitiful._ You—just like _everybody else_, everybody _normal_— just. don't. _understand!_...Nothing lasts forever,_ darling_, everything gets _old_…everything _dies_…_everyone_…And all good things must come to an end."

"I know that!" Molly declared, "I know 'all good things must come to an end' and it's_ true_. But that doesn't mean _you_ have to be the one to _end_ them!"

"_Yes it does_!" Jim countered, "I'm not some little _ant_, like _you_, marching around, blindly following orders…I'm a _god_, Molly, I don't let _anybody else_ determine _my_ destiny…_I_ tell the story of my own life, _I _decide how it _ends_."

"Then kill yourself then!" Molly exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air in defeat, "End it all!...but _don't_ bring anyone else into it and kill them to! They didn't ask for that! They don't _deserve_ that! Don't bring Sherlock into it…"

Jim picked up the vase again, and prepared to throw something across the room for the third time that day.

Molly flinched, ducking in anticipation and instinctively closing her eyes.

But when she opened them upon hearing no crash (and feeling no object rush by her, almost grazing her face) she saw that the vase was back on the counter and Jim was empty handed, just laughing at her, laughing at her like he always did.

"I see how it is now…" He sighed, shaking his head and smiling, "I _understand_…"

(And to think that Jim had thought, just for a moment, that Molly had actually…)

Molly raised herself back to her normal height, looking at Jim as if she really didn't know him at all (which she _really didn't_ (couldn't) she decided).

"It's _all about Sherlock_, isn't it?" Jim continued to chuckled, "It's _always_ been _all about Sherlock…_You don't _'care'_ about _me._ You only _'care'_ about _him_…. And all of this, _everything_, it's all been some elaborate _game_ to you, hasn't it? It's all been some overly-complicated plan—a _futile_ one, by the way—to get Sherlock to _notice _you. To take you _seriously_. To be _jealous_…And it'll never work, you know that, but you just don't _'care'_, do you? You'll _never give up_…"

"No—" Molly denied but was quickly cut off.

"I should kill you for this." Jim said, "And maybe I will, too, _later_…But not _now._ You're not even worth it, really. You're just a bug, Molly, a _mouse_...and in the 'grand scheme of things' you. don't. _count_. Killing you would be a waste of my time…and it would just get Sherlock's _attention_…that's what you _want_, isn't it, _Sherlock's precious attention_…I'm not going to _give _you what you _want._ And neither is _he… _Sherlock is _mine. _Get it, Molly? _Mine." _

"I—" Molly tried to speak again, but again was interrupted.

Jim walked past Molly, roughly pushing her out of his way so that she again stumbled backwards (he didn't catch her arm this time and pull her back up), towards the door to leave.

Molly stood there watching him go.

"Jim don't—" she attempted, for the third time, but the door slammed like thunder behind Jim and he was _gone._

Left (by Jim(again)) _alone_ in her flat, Molly was _not _going to _cry._

She was going to watch television.

(…except, for the life of her, she couldn't find the remote.)

* * *

><p>Once the bell had rung and all the other students had filed out, chatting amongst themselves, Jim and his drama teacher were the only ones left in the classroom.<p>

Jim sunk into seat, as far under his desk as he could possibly go down.

"Mr. Moriarty, come here." The teacher ordered, and Jim ducked lowered, "…_Now._"

Jim rose, deliberately slow, rolling his eyes as he dragged his feet towards the teacher's desk.

The teacher stood, taller than him (but not by much as Jim had recently entered puberty and had grown what must have been a full foot during his 'vacation' at the mental hospital), and looked down to meet Jim's avoidant eyes.

Jim said nothing.

"Care to explain to me, Mr. Moriarty," The teacher began, sternly, "What that was all about in class today?"

"What was _what_ all about?" Jim asked, innocently.

The teacher sighed.

"You know, Jim, I don't think you're a stupid kid…" he stated, "In fact, I know you're quite the opposite actually…"

Jim perked up upon hearing someone appreciate his intelligence…_and call him by his first name. _

He eyed his teacher (whom he had never paid much attention to in the past), suspiciously, _evaluating_ him.

Khaki pants…buttoned down, tucked in shirt…_nice jacket_…clothes all ironed _perfectly_…but no wedding ring…hair blond (naturally, but still lightened a bit, judging from the roots) and a bit curly (no—wavy) and really too long for a man…and was that just the tiniest touch of _eyeliner_? (the class hadn't even gotten to performing yet, there was _no point_ in wearing stage make-up…_unless_)…

…_gay._

(_Of course_! He _was_ a theater teacher, after all.)

Jim smiled.

"Thank you…" he said, looking up at his teacher, eyes still wide with feigned innocence, "…I'm glad somebody thinks I'm not stupid…I'm just so alone at this school…It's so _hard _being the new kid, nobody _likes_ me here…_I don't have any friends_…" and there were little _tears _forming at the edges of his eyelids now.

The teacher eyed Jim, skeptically, raising an eyebrow as he _evaluated _him.

"Like I said, you're not a stupid kid, Jim." He repeated (both the sentiment and the name Jim so appreciated), "…_and you really could have a future as an actor_."

"Huh?" Jim inquired, taken aback, dropping his sleeve from where he was about to wipe away his tears so he could stare at the teacher, "What do you mean…?"

"Don't_ play_ with me, _boy_." He warned, "I've just seen you be _three different people_ today, Jim, none of them truly _yourself_. I've just seen you give three _performances_…"

"I—" Jim started, but was interrupted.

"…and I've never seen such natural talent before in my life." His teacher smiled, warmly (proudly?).

"…Thank you…" Jim said again, this time more cautiously (sincerely?).

"I want you to join my afterschool drama club, _Jim_, put that talent to use." The teacher continued, "Besides, it would be a good way to make _'friends'_, too, get people to _'like'_ you when it's just _'so hard being the new kid'_…"

"Okay." Jim agreed.

"I want you to join my drama club…but on one _condition_." The teacher clarified, "You can act as much as you want, be all the people you want to be…as long as, once in a while, I get to see the _real _Jim Moriarty. Promise?"

"Yes." Jim nodded, already grinning, "I _promise_."

* * *

><p>Jim walked the streets of London boredly and aimlessly, towering anthills all around him, insignificant <em>ants<em> all around him.

Only earlier that he day he had thought that Sherlock acting 'normal' was the most disappointing thing ever…but he had been _wrong._

No, it was Molly Hooper, after all this time, still trying to get her pointless _'revenge'_ on Sherlock Holmes for _rejecting_ her (still trying to get Sherlock Holmes to_ love_ her)…

Why was she being so _stupid?_

Didn't she _understand_ that Sherlock would _never_ be jealous?

(The only one that was 'jealous' here was_ Jim_ (No he _wasn't_ (yes he _was..._))

Didn't she u_nderstand_ that Sherlock would never _want_ her?

(The only one that 'wanted' her here was_ Jim_ (No he _didn't (y_es he _did_...))

Well if Sherlock wasn't going to participate in (or even _pay attention_ to) Molly's little _'_game' of _'Oooh, look at me, look at me!' _then Jim certainly wasn't going to.

He had_ better _things to do.

…like_ what_, exactly, again?

Sherlock Holmes.

…no _wait._

Sherlock and John were _gone _(somewhere, Out of town on some case, probably).

_So what now…?_

What did Jim _do_ when he was_ bored_ and couldn't _play_ with Sherlock…?

Molly Hooper.

_No. _

This was_ silly._

Jim had loads of ways to distract himself that didn't involve Molly Hooper.

Besides, now that he wasn't even 'Jim Moriarty' anymore, he had to make a new life, a new _name_ for himself.

But now that he wasn't_ himself _anymore…just _who_ would he be?

Jim got out his phone from his suit pocket, checking his texts gain.

'_Mr. M'_, they said (they _begged_), '_help me please. I need you a consulting criminal…I need you…'_

A 'consulting criminal'.

That's what he was, wasn't he? That's what he _did._

It was time to get back to _work._

* * *

><p>Doyle was the second-in-command of a very notorious, very wealthy and very dangerous crew of thieves (the actual leader of this crew was never seen. ever. and did all his work through Doyle who acted as the front of his operation).<p>

Conan was a corrupt guard at Pentonville Prison who smuggled in prisoners what ever they wanted as long as they paid enough.

Arthur was a normal British citizen-with delusions of grandeur.

…and just _what _were they all doing at King's Cross train station, standing still on a balcony overlooking a boarding area as other people swarmed around them all in hurry?

Well even _they_ wanted to know _that._

"...you _him_?" Conan finally asked, after he had seen Doyle (black suit, red shirt, no tie) standing in the same general location for about as long as he had.

"What?" Doyle asked, turning to Conan (overweight and uniformed).

"I asked if you was him." Conan answered, and then his cockney accent dropped into a whisper, "You know…_Moriarty_…"

"Shut up!" Doyle snapped, also whispering, "_You can't say his name_!"

"Oh…sorry…!" Conan apologized, "…But_ are_ you him?"

"Obviously not!" Doyle exclaimed, "Or else I would have said that you can't say _my_ name, not _his_ name!"

"Oh…" Conan said again, "…So you're _not_ him…"

"Yes!" Doyle groaned.

"'Yes' you _are_ him," Conan replied, "Or 'yes' you're _not _him."

"_Yes I am not him_!" Doyle all but shouted, still trying to keep his voice a whisper, "I am not—"

He stopped himself before he said The Name.

"Are you two, by any chance, talking about _Moriarty_?" Arthur inquired, approaching Conan and Doyle.

"Shut up!" Conan snapped, turning to Arthur (jeans, t-shirt, and fake designer watch), "_You can't say his name!_"

"Oh…sorry…!" Arthur apologized.

Doyle slapped his forehead.

"…You're both not here to see him, too…are you?" He asked,_ definitely_ fearing the inevitable answer.

"Yes." Conan answered, and then clarified, "… 'Yes' I am here to see him, I mean, not 'yes' I am _not_ here to see him."

"I'm here to see him." Arthur answered and then turned to Conan in confused, "So wait…are you meant 'yes' you _are_ here to see him or…?"

"_Yes we are all here to see him_." Doyle declared, just as Conan opened his mouth to speak.

"And by 'him' you mean-" Conan started.

"_You can't say his name!_" Arthur interrupted, "Shut up!"

"I wasn't going to!" Conan protested, "All I was gonna say was 'you know who'…or something else… _ambiguous_ of that nature…"

"Oh…" Arthur said again.

Doyle sighed.

Jim, who was watching them all from his favorite bench (the _same_ bench he always sat on ( in the _same_ train station he always went to (in the _same _city he always worked in (the_ same_)))), would have let this conversation go on longer… if he hadn't felt just so damn_ sorry_ for Doyle.

He stood up and strolled over to the three he had invited here to meet with him.

"Hello, boys." Jim greeted them, jovially, with a wave.

Arthur, Conan and Doyle all turned to look at him.

"…You're here to see Moriarty too?" Arthur questioned.

"Shut up!" Conan hissed, elbowing Arthur "You're not supposed to say his name!"

"Shut up." Doyle growled, elbowing Conan, "It_ is_ 'him'."

"Well aren't you three_ stooges_ just the most _adorable_ lot?" Jim grinned, and then looked to each man in turn, "King Arthur…Conan the Barbarian…and Mr. Kobayashi…The _holy trinity_, a threesome made in heaven. I think we'll work _well_ together…"

They stared at him blankly, confused.

"…So I _am_ king!" Arthur exclaimed, triumphantly, "I _am_ royalty! I _knew_ it!"

"I'm not a barbarian…" Conan grumbled, "You know I've heard that joke hundreds of times and it's never really very funny…"

Doyle raised an eyebrow at Jim.

"You said 'the holy trinity'," He commented, "And there are three of us…_but then there's you._ That makes _four._ What about _you?_ _Who are you_?"

"…why I'm the _devil_, of course." Jim smirked, "_Who else?_"

* * *

><p><em>Who else? <em>

(…'who else' _indeed..._)

Jim Moriarty was a 'consulting criminal'.

He was going to commit crimes.

He was going to help people commit crimes.

Because that's what he _did._

He was going to break into the Bank of England for one client (Doyle's mysterious employer), break into Pentonville Prison for another (Conan's favorite bribing prisoner) and break into the Tower of London for a third (good King Arthur)…

He was going to do his _job._

…_but that didn't mean he was going to actually give them what they wanted._

He was just going to let them do his 'dirty work' (and keep his own hands, so soft and so lovely,_ clean_), bribe and/or threaten all the right people so that they 'turned a blind eye' at the right moment (_say_ went for a cup of coffee or something) and Jim could get what _he_ wanted.

And _what_ did_ he_ want?

…Molly Hooper?

_No._

He wanted Sherlock Holmes's _attention._

(Which is what Molly had wanted, too.(Which was _definitely_ the reason that he had thought of her.))

And he wanted to convince the world his brother's (no—_his_(his (ex) brother had _given_ it too him) 'all-access' code was _real. _

Really, it was all too_ easy_…too _boring_…

This was why, Jim remembered, he had decided to _quit_ the 'criminal consulting' business.

(Which he hadn't yet gotten around to actually doing.)

_Sure_, he was going to do his _job._

Because, after all, that's what he _did._

…but _who was he?_

Jim Moriarty was a 'consulting criminal' but Jim wasn't 'Jim Moriarty' anymore.

So _who was he?_

* * *

><p>And so Jim joined the after school drama club.<p>

And_ maybe_, once in a while, his teacher _did _catch a glimpse (_just a glimpse_) of the _real _Jim Moriarty.

Jim quickly and effortlessly, became one of the 'popular' kids at school (despite 'drama geeks' usually being the lower sandstones on the social pyramid), all the class laughing whenever he made his jokes…all the girls cheering and all the audience applauding whenever he performed the lead roles in school plays.

Jim acted.

That's what he _did. _

(He had been doing it his whole life, too, he'd just been calling it 'pretending'.)

Jim was popular.

That's what he _was._

But when James (and the whole school, as well) found out about the _affair_ between a fifteen year old _male_ student and his thirty-eight year old _male_ drama teacher…

…Well, that all _changed._

James immediately took Jim out of his new school, made sure the teacher was fired (and never again hired, either) and covered up the scandal (the school appreciated and aided with this) so that no one ever _knew. _

"But you just don't understand!" Jim had pleaded, "Nobody does!...Nobody but _him_! He understands me! He's the only one…"

Maybe he _did_, maybe he _didn't._

Maybe Jim was _lying_, maybe he _wasn't._

James didn't _care._

"There are _rules_, Jim." he had said, sighing and shaking his head, "There are rules…"

But he would _never_ say that _again_, now would he?

* * *

><p><em>"Next!"<em>

Jim heard the call and looked up and around from the script he had been reading over, and saw that he was the last one left seated in the row of chairs against the wall in the long hall way decorated with movie and television show posters.

He stood up and made his way into the audition room across from him.

"Name?" the woman in the doorway holding the clipboard asked him.

"Uh…Rich," He answered, feigning nervousness, "Richard…Brooke?"

"Alright," the woman nodded, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Brooke. Right this way please…"

Jim followed her.

She was a talent agent.

That's what she _did._

And as for _Jim_…

Jim Moriarty was a 'consulting criminal'...

...but Richard Brooke was an _actor._

* * *

><p><strong>uh oh! <strong>

**Jim and Molly had a _fight!_ **

**...well it's not like they could live in 'domestic bliss' _forever_, now could they?**

**('all good things must come to an end') **

** lol**

** And I'm sorry to keep asking all these strange, stalkerish questions but...**

**...what gender is everyone?**

**I assume most readers of this fic are female, given that most people who read and write fanfiction are female, most people who read 'romance' stories are female and most people who watch 'Sherlock' are female...**

**...but I could be wrong (it's been known to happen, lol).**

** So I was just wondering the gender of my readers. **

**And the ages, perhaps, too...if that's not too weird to ask. **

**Of course, don't answer if you don't feel comfortable (it's not like I'm going to stop updating or anything if you don't lol). **

**Idk, I just like knowing, you know? **

**lol**


	25. Hide and Seek

**Hey guys!**

** Thanks to everyone who reviewed and to everyone who answered my questions!**

**It takes about 15 minutes for most to read these chapters...and it takes me about 8 hours to write them (luckily I take breaks lol). **

**And most people (everyone?) reading is female, like I predicted...I, too, am a female (of course, lol). **

**And as for age...well we've got a lot of young people (16-20ish) like I thought there'd be, but at least a couple readers old enough to have children, which is really flattering to me since real-live GROWN UPS like my work...**

**...not that I don't appriciate my peers's approval, as well, because I _do_ (in fact I've been trying to garner my peers's approval my whole life, although I'm only able to do it over the internet). **

**ince 16-20 year olds are my 'peers', that makes me somewhere between 16 and 20...lol, I'm 18 (but I seem to have (mentally, physically, emotionally, socially) stagnated at about 16 and am a perpetual child). **

**lol**

**Not that any of you actually _care_ about me (you care about the story, though, which is what I _need_ you to-so I guess if I died...nvm, let's not even THINK about that) I just wanted to give out my info to be fair to the people who gave out theirs, lol. **

** I don't think I came down with the Writer's Block I was fearing...for now...**

**And John's blog post can be found, of course, on his blog at: www. johnwatsonblog . co . uk / (remove space). **

**:)**

**Smile, everyone and read! **

* * *

><p>It was March 16, 2012 and John Watson had just updated his blog with another post entitled "The Hounds of Baskerville".<p>

That meant he and Sherlock were back in London.

Seated on her couch, Molly attempted to read about Sherlock Holmes's latest case and latest brilliant exploits but she found herself too _distracted_.

_I've never been happier to see anyone than I was to see Henry Knight. Sherlock had been bored—_

_"I'm going to kill him, you know."_

'_Footprints that appeared to have been made by, what he called, a 'gigantic hound'—_

_"I'm allowed to now. James set me free. The dog's off the chain…"_

_Something that just seemed so unbelievable and so unstoppable... Those eyes—_

Molly remembered Jim staring at her, always staring at her with those intense (_insane_) looking eyes…

_No. _

Don't think about him.

Keep reading.

_We returned to the moors, to the place where Henry's dad had been killed and there he was. He was close to killing himself—_

_"…Oh I don't know… Kill myself, probably…"_

_Maybe the fear and doubt he'd felt, and maybe his experiences with Irene Adler, had humanized him—_

"_You're so…so…sentimental. It's pitiful. You—just like everybody else, everybody normal..." _

_Sherlock had made a mistake. He is only human, after all—_

_"I'm going to kill him, you know."_

"_The Game is almost over now, what else is there to live for…?"_

_"I'm going to kill him, you know."_

"_Sherlock Holmes is going to die…and so is Jim Moriarty..."_

Molly set down her laptop and stood up.

She had to _do something_…

…but _what?_

She could _warn _Sherlock.

"Hey, Sherlock…"

"What do you want_ this_ time, Maggie? I am _not_ going out for coffee with you—"

"Oh, nothing like _that_. I just wanted to let you know that Jim—you remember Jim, right? _Jim Moriarty._ Mass murderer who tried to kill you a while back? _That_ Jim, _my ex-boyfriend_…"

"…I do…"

"Yeah, well…_he's back_. And he's going to kill you. Just thought you ought to know."

"And _how_ do you know this, Mary?"

"…uh…well…_about that_….remember when I said he was my '_ex-_boyfriend'…? I wasn't lying about that or anything. We _did _break up…_Yesterday_…yeah…but we kinda got back together first …yeah…um…_Sherlock?_"

"LESTRADE!"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade here, sir! Reporting for duty, sir! How may I serve you today, Mr. Holmes, sir?"

"_She's_ been consorting with the consulting criminal! _Arrest this fiend!_"

"Yes, sir! Right away, sir!...Come with me, Miss Hopper."

_No._

_Bad _idea.

Molly could_ not_ tell Sherlock _anything._

Even if she lied and said that she had 'just happened' to see Jim walking down the street or something and he had just _casually mentioned_ what he was going to _do…_ or told Sherlock that she had gotten an anonymous text message detailing Jim's intentions for Sherlock…

…Molly knew that Sherlock would _know._

He would look at her and _know._

There was no _hiding_ from Sherlock's all-seeing eyes and omniscient mind.

And simply_ telling_ Sherlock that Jim was planning to kill him still wouldn't actually_ stop_ Jim from _going through_ with his plans.

…so what_ could_ Molly _do_?

(Molly was tempted to just do_ nothing_ and let Sherlock and Jim go at it. If Sherlock was _so smart_ then he didn't need _her help_ and what did she owe him anyway? _Nothing_...But doing _nothing_ wouldn't be the _right_ thing to do.)

What would_ Sherlock_ do?

What would Sherlock Holmes, world's only consulting detective and best and brightest super-genius, do if he were in her situation?

…what_ did_ he do?

Sherlock had 'handled' Jim _before_…he had _stopped_ Jim before.

_What did he do? _

Molly sat back down, pulling her laptop to her and checking the archive of John Watson's blog.

She re-read the April 1st, 2010 post, "The Great Game" trying to ignore the embarrassing bit that made her seem so _stupid_—

_Out stepped Moriarty. It was Jim. Molly Hooper's boyfriend from the IT department at Bart's! Even that little meeting had been part of the game._ _The two men talked, both clearly pleased to, at last, be face to face. Again, I felt like a pawn in their game._

—(_"…tell me about it.." _Molly sighed to herself), and got the 'moral' of the 'story'.

And the moral of the story _was_:

YouCAN'T _stop_ Jim Moriarty…

…but you CAN _distract_ him.

Molly, smiled, closing her laptop.

She knew just what she was going to do.

* * *

><p>Although it was a reasonably sunny early spring day, Antonio Ricoletti was chilly and so pulled his long, black winter coat tighter around him.<p>

He had bought it on sale at the airport when he arrived in London from Italy (where the warm Mediterranean climate was much more to his liking), along with the dark sunglasses he was wearing.

Normally the art thief preferred more expressive clothing (bright colors, unique patterns, thin and comfortable (preferably silk) fabric) but he simply couldn't stand the weather here.

That _and_ he knew that Mr. Moriarty did_ not_ like to call attention to himself.

Everything Ricoletti had heard about the 'consulting criminal' had indicated that he should do his best to help _conceal _the identity that Mr. Moriarty _definitely _wanted concealed and do his best _not_ to make Mr. Moriarty _mad._

And so Ricoletti was _here_, standing in front of the British National Gallery, in dark clothing trying not to be _noticed_ and eagerly (and nervously) anticipating his meeting with the mysterious Mr. M.

The fountain was on, despite the cold air (which was probably _warm_ to the locals). Ricoletti 'admired' it and the architecture of the building.

But he would much rather have been _inside_ the gallery, however, 'admiring' the paintings (and stealing them).

_Where was Mr. Moriarty?_

It's not that Ricoletti was getting _impatient_, or anything…_no, no, no._ That's not it at all. He knew_ better _than that.

He knew he was lucky enough to get a meeting with the world's only 'consulting criminal'-who was powerful enough to arrive for it whenever he pleased.

And he eventually did.

Only about an hour an a half late.

Ricoletti didn't mention it.

Instead he said, "_Buongiorno, Mr. Moriarty."_ In his normally light Italian accent that he liked to play-up whenever he talked to foreigners (especially Americans—but the British, too).

"_Bonjour!_" Mr. Moriarty replied( in _ French?_), smirking.

He was wearing some kind of 'ironic' t-shirt with an edited image of the Mona Lisa winking printed on white and bright red skinny-jeans.

_Of course he was. _

_No, no, no._ Mr. Moriarty was powerful enough to show-up as late as he wanted and wear whatever tacky hipster clothing he wanted. Ricoletti was_ not_ going to comment or even roll his eyes in disgust (and jealousy of the pretty colors).

"Sorry it took me so long." Mr. Moriarty apologized, with a shrug, "I was in the gift shop. Got this _great_ shirt. Hilarious, right?...picked up a little something for _you_, too, _Signor Ricoletti_. Here."

Mr. Moriarty reached into one pocket to his neon (and_ way_ too tight-_no, no, no_) pants and, after a few long seconds of struggling to shove his fingers in and then get them back out again, he was able to pull out a cheap-looking—_no, no, no_—a _nice_-looking necklace that read: 'I-(union jack)-London'.

_Wow. _

"Uh…_grazie _…" Ricoletti thanked, reluctantly taking the charm and then wondering just _what_ he was going to _do_ with it, "Thank you, Mr. Moriarty."

"_De nada_." Mr. Moriarty responded (in _Spanish?), _still smiling, "It'll be something to remember your vacation in our _fair _city by…"

Ricoletti tried not to shiver (was it the wind…or the _'consulting criminal'_?).

"Yes, but, as I'm sure you know, I am not here as a _tourist_, Mr. Moriarty." He reminded, accent softening and then re-heavy-ing once he heard it slipping, "I am here on _business_…"

"Still," Mr. Moriarty insisted, "…_put it on_…"

Ricoletti froze.

Did this guy _actually expect_ him to wear a _necklace?_

(And a cheap-looking one at that.)

Sure, he liked art…but that didn't make him _gay_!

"…um….I…" Ricoletti fumbled, accent all but gone, "I don't think—"

He was interrupted by someone jumping on him from behind, wrapping arms around his neck.

(What, was he being _attacked_ or something by one of Mr. Moriarty's goons for not putting on the necklace?)

_No. _

He knew _exactly_ who it was.

_Ricoletti was saved!_

(For now, at least.)

"Rosetta!" he exclaimed, whirling around to embrace his wife (and escape, momentarily, from Mr. Moriarty), "You've followed me all the way here!"

"Oh, Antonio, you know I'll always follow you," Rose chided, kissing both her husband's cheeks, "You are forever my stone and I am forever your shadow. The sun in the sky—"

"Aww, isn't this-just-so _adorable_?" Mr. Moriarty (fake) sobbed , wiping a (fake) tear from his eye, "Two star-crossed lovers, reunited at last! It's like Romeo and Juliet!"

(Well, at least he got the country (Italy) right this time…)

"Antonio, who is this man?" Rose asked, turning from Ricoletti to Mr. Moriarty and then back to Ricoletti, confused and offended.

(She too had a heavy Italian accent, Sicilian specifically (just like her raven hair and tanned skin), but hers was natural.)

"This is Signor Moriarty, Rose…" Ricoletti explained, "The man I told you about—"

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," Mr. Moriarty greeted, swooping over to grab Rose's hand and kiss it, "Your beauty is more radiant than the flower that shares your name, Miss—"

"_No._" Rose snapped, snatching her hand back, "Not _'miss'_…_Signora_…Signora Ricoletti. We are married."

"..._congratulations_." Mr. Moriarty said, less than enthusiastically, and returned to his full height.

Rose clung to Ricoletti, leaning up to kiss him again, this time on the very corner of his mouth.

Ricoletti sighed (although arm already around her, he couldn't help pat her on the back for her standing her ground like that—that _was_ his Rose, after all, very _forceful_…).

"Please forgive my wife, Mr. Moriarty." he apologized, "She's _Sicilian_, you see…they do things, um, _differently_ there…"

Rose stamped on his foot…with her red, high-heeled shoe (_ouch!_).

Ricoletti tried not to wince.

"It's fine." Mr. Moriarty stated, "She really _is_ a beauty. A nice 'catch', Signor… She can go have a look around the gallery while the men talk business."

Ricoletti opened his mouth to respond but Rose beat him to it.

"My husband and I are a team." she declared, "We do everything together. We work together."

Mr. Moriarty raised an eyebrow.

"Even steal priceless paintings?" he asked.

"Yes." Rose confirmed, but then added "…well not exactly—"

"It's _true_, Mr. Moriarty, my wife and I _do _work together," Ricoletti elaborated, "I should have told you. I steal the paintings and she makes the forgeries. As many as we want. We sell them all, keep the originals for our own private collection. That's our business…it's _perfect_, no?"

Rose squeezed his hand and he dared to look away from Mr. Moriarty for a moment to kiss her on the forehead.

"Yes, yes it is!" Mr. Moriarty agreed, nodding and smiling approvingly, "Perfect, indeed…"

Ricoletti and Rose matched his expression, finally feeling as if they could work with this (creepy, strange) man.

But then, of course, Mr. Moriarty's face fell into a blank, _dead _stare.

The_ nothingness_ was _scarier_, Ricoletti thought, than if he had gotten _mad._

"…if you two are so _perfect _together…?" he began, "then _what_ do you need _me _for?"

"That isn't what I meant!" Ricoletti exclaimed, "I just—"

"Come on, Antonio!" Rose cut him off, pulling on his hand, "We don't need him. Let's go."

"Wait, wait, Rose, _wait_—" Ricoletti tried, now standing his ground and stopping her from stomping away, "Let me just—"

"No, this man is _rude_." Rose asserted, still trying to walk herself and her husband away, "We don't need him. We don't have time for this."

"Let the man speak!" Mr. Moriarty interjected, "For _god's sake_, Signor, doesn't this ever get _annoying?_ Doesn't _she_ ever get annoying?...following you around everywhere, never leaving you alone…You don't _need _her! I can't imagine how you're able to _work _with this—this _distraction_!"

"How dare you!" Rose shouted, raising a hand to slap him.

Ricoletti caught the hand.

"Rosella, _stop_." He said.

And she _did. _

Rose, now quiet (but still _seething_) stood behind her husband and he continued to speak.

"Yes, Mr. Moriarty, at first I admit it_ did_ get annoying," Ricoletti sighed, "_she_ did get annoying, always following me, chasing me all over the world, finding me no matter where I tried to hide…_cristo_, once I even tried to have her_ killed_ for it!" he chuckled lightly at this point and so did Rose, as if they were recalling a fond memory, "I thought that I, Ricoletti, the _world's most notorious art thief_ didn't need _one _woman-when I could have a different girl every night- didn't _need _Rose…but I was _wrong. _I _did _need her. I _do_ need her. And she's _not_ a 'distraction'…"

"Sure, but—" Mr. Moriarty started.

"_No._ Let me finish." Ricoletti interrupted, and then took a deep breath, "Rose is not a 'distraction'. She is, how you say, an _asset…_She's brilliant. She can look at a painting, just look at it once, and then re-create it as if she was the original artist herself! It is like _magic,_ almost _unnatural_…and she knows all the ways to age it, the right papers, inks and oils and colors to use... She doesn't just make _forgeries_…she makes art. _True art._ And it is _beautiful_… I do my _best_ work with her. We do our best work _together_."

"Fine, _fine_." Mr. Moriarty dismissed, rolling his eyes again and shaking his head, "Pretty_ and_ smart. You didn't just pick her for her looks._ I get it. _…"

"No you _don't_." Ricoletti countered, also shaking his head and he found himself laughing, "You _don't_ get it. You don't get it at all…" he turned to his wife, "He doesn't get it, Rose, he just doesn't get it—"

"Come on, Antonio, let's go..." Rose breathed with a small smile, taking her husband's hand and leading him up the stone steps into the gallery, "…someone like him, he'll never 'get it'…he'll never _understand…" _

"_Oh, go get a room._" Mr. Moriarty grumbled before trying (and failing) to push his hands into his too tight pockets, turning away and stalking off down the street.

Signor and Signora Ricoletti didn't seem to mind.

* * *

><p>At primary school, during recess, some days some of the more outgoing (popular) kids would organize a class-wide game of hide and seek.<p>

Molly liked these days.

These were the days that _everyone _was _included _(everyone, for once, including Molly).

Most of the girls would hide in pairs, giggling to themselves from under the slide or behind a tree and soon be found, but _Molly_...

…Molly wanted to _win._

It wasn't because she had to be the _'best'_ or had anything to _prove_….it was because she just wanted to be '_good'_ at _something_ so that everyone would _like _her and _talk to her_ and keep asking her to play when they got together these big, thirty-kid games of hide and seek.

So Molly hid alone.

Each game, while 'it' counted with his or her eyes covered against a tree, Molly would run, find the _'best' _hiding spot and _make herself invisible._

Usually, she was found fourth or third or even second to last…or the teacher would call everybody inside and recess would be over before_ everyone _was _found _and anyone won.

But one day Molly _won._

Oh, she was so _proud_, huddled between the door (held open by a brick) and the wall, in the dark, pyramid-shaped crevice, watching the other children get chased out of their hiding places, watching 'it' run past her so many times without seeing her.

Even the teacher, when she emerged from the door to mark the end of recess, didn't see Molly there as the children lined up in rows by gender.

Molly waited.

Even if 'it' and everyone still couldn't find her, after so long, the teacher was going to call roll, notice Molly was missing from the line and then call out her name once more.

Then Molly would jump out, awe everyone with her _perfect_ hiding place (the _best _hiding place, which she was _smarter _than them all for finding) and finally _win. _

Molly waited.

And _waited._

_And waited. _

The class filed, following the teacher, back into the school. The teacher never called her name.

_No one did. _

No one even noticed she was _gone._

The door slammed shut, pulled closed by the last student in line, revealing Molly and her '_perfect'_ hiding spot.

But even then no one saw her.

No one _found _her.

And Molly was _alone._

* * *

><p>"<em>Honey, I'm home<em>!" Jim called as he pushed open the door to Molly's flat.

No answer.

…_Tsk, tsk, Molly_, '_playing hard to get'_…

He knew she wouldn't (_couldn't_) ignore him for long.

She'd always 'come crawling back' to him (and_ him_ showing up at _her_ apartment was _not_ him 'come crawling back' to _her... definitely not_).

Jim closed the door behind him as Toby rushed up to him, rubbing against his legs (it was just the hideously tacky skinny jeans, so it was okay) and purring his usual greeting.

"I'm only here to retrieve what belongs to me…" Jim continued, as he walked further into the flat, "…so you can just stay out of my way and I'll be in and out in a second.."

_Still _no answer.

Jim _knew_ Molly was off work at this time.

And since she had no_ friends_ (no _life_) there was _nowhere_ she would be but at home (_like a good little nobody_).

But the lights were all off and although Jim checked every room he did could not find Molly.

…_where the hell was she? _

Warning Sherlock that Jim was 'coming for him'?

_No. _

She wasn't_ that_ stupid.

(Jim imagined how the situation would play out… Molly trying to tell Sherlock Jim's plan to kill him (and himself)—_without_ revealing the reason she 'just happened' to know about it…and it was _hilarious_.)

Jim went back into her bedroom to check again.

"Just_ where_ are you _hiding_, Molly, _my dear_…" he muttered to himself as he bent and checked under the bed.

Toby followed him.

Standing back up, Jim then saw the closet, its doors closed tightly.

"Come out, come out wherever you are…" Jim sang as he tip-toed towards it, and then suddenly, _sharply _pulled both doors open, "_Found you_!"

…except he _didn't._

Molly was _not_ hidinginside her closet.

"Yes, I found you… _my favorite suits_!" Jim saved, "There you are!"

Toby mewed, and Jim turned his head back to see the cat sitting on the bed, staring at him skeptically.

Jim looked back into the darkness of the closet and the outline of the hanging clothing (mostly_ Molly's_ and then_ his_ dry-cleaning, separated from _hers_ by its plastic armor).

He _would_ have taken his clothes…

…but he didn't want to look like some _servant _(because he _cared so much_ about what people about him), walking around, carrying dry-cleaned suits (didn't he have _people_ for that?).

And so he just left them there in Molly's closet.

(Yes, that was_ definitely_ why.)

* * *

><p>Jim Moriarty and Antonio Ricoletti had ended their 'working relationship' before it even began due to 'creative differences'.<p>

('Creative differences' meaning that if Ricoletti wanted to be_ whipped_ and bring his wife along on the job then Jim would have no part of that.)

And although an international art thief (_the world's most notorious art thief_) stealing a famous painting from the National Gallery was crucial to Jim's plan…

(a plan which involved the police inevitably 'consulting' (_relying_) on Sherlock Holmes to solve the case, and the media making Sherlock _famous_ just as soon as he did solve it (and had found and caught the painting and the art thief), which in turn would lead to Sherlock taking on more and more high profile cases until he was a _superstar_…whereupon Jim Moriarty would shoot him straight out of the night sky.)

…he just couldn't_ work_ with Ricoletti (well, Ricoletti _and_ Rose. Ricoletti _alone _was _fine._ But the two of them _together_…) and so he'd have to find another way to put his plot into motion…_and something else to distract himself_.

_(Not_ involving Molly Hooper. Because Jim had _loads_ of ways to distract himself that didn't involve Molly Hooper.)

_And so_ he called 'the boys' up for a 'guy's night out'.

* * *

><p>"We can't just keep meeting like this, all four of us together." Doyle reasoned, "Someone'll get suspicious…especially when it all goes down."<p>

He was sitting down on one of the chairs, but looking back and forth, up and down the hall to see if anyone was coming.

"Don't be such a scaredy-cat." Jim scoffed.

He was pacing back and forth, up and down the hall, anxiously, as if he was _hoping _someone was coming.

"What did you even need to meet us all about, anyway?" Doyle asked, "I already did _my _fourth of the work. I don't know about _them_," he gestured to Conan and Arthur, "But you _don't_ need to _check up_ on _me_."

"Hey!" Arthur exclaimed, jumping up from his chair and glaring at Doyle, "I did my part too!"

"So did I." Conan added, remaining seated and munching on a bag of crisps he picked up from the vending machine.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen." Jim soothed, ". I trust you all did your jobs satisfactorily…this is just a friendly, routine 'check-up'…for assurances, sake."

"…I _assure _you, sir, I've done my part." Doyle muttered, folding one leg over the other, and looking away from Jim bitterly (regretting working with the 'consulting criminal' already).

"As have I." Conan piped up, chomping on his snack, crumbs spilling onto his uniform.

"…wait a minute, you said a _'check-up'_…?" Arthur wondered, "…is _that_ why were meeting at a hospital…?"

Conan choked a bit on the potato-chip, laughing and Doyle groaned, rolling his eyes.

Jim's pacing jerked to a stop…but only for a moment.

Doyle saw this and turned back to him, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah why _are_ we meeting in a hospital, _anyway_?" Conan asked, mouth full and food flying out everywhere (Arthur scooted away two seats over, brushing himself off, Doyle chose to ignore).

"…could be 'cause it's a public place and he likes to meet in public places since they're _safer_…" Doyle mused, glancing up at Jim, almost smirking, "…but there are _an awful lot_ of public places here in London, some a lot more '_public'_ than the _hallway to a basement morgue_…so, _yes_, why_ are_ we meeting in a hospital, then, _Mr. Moriarty_?"

"_I dunno_…" Jim shrugged, spinning on his heels to face Doyle and stare intensely (insanely) into his eyes, "…maybe I just like _dead people." _

_That _shut Doyle (and Arthur and Conan) up pretty damn quick.

Doyle realized that there was _no_ _real purpose_ for meeting in St. Bartholomew's hospital, and_ no_ _real purpose_ for this meeting (other than to meet in St. Bartholomew's hospital)…and that there was no _thing_ he (or Arthur or Conan) could_ do_ about it.

Suddenly, the long, awkward silence was interrupted.

'…_I-I-I-I'm staying alive, staying alive…' _

"Oops, that's me!" Jim chirped, embarrassedly, reaching into the pocket of his black pants.

" '_just like dead people'_, huh?" Doyle quoted skeptically.

"I'm just gonna go take this…" Jim said, already hurrying down the hallway.

Arthur, Conan and Doyle watched him go.

They waited in the waiting room of the morgue for an hour and half.

"…He's not coming back, is he?" Arthur spoke up, checking his fake-designer watch for the hundredth time.

Doyle shook his head, staring at his lap.

"…so is that a _'yes'_…or a _'no'_?" Arthur asked, and then decided after a few more seconds of silence, "…I'll take that as a 'no'…"

"Well, I'm going to get another bag of crisps." Conan declared, patting his knees and then standing up, "Anyone wanna come?"

"I'll go!" Arthur agreed, jumping up and following Conan down the hall.

Doyle got up too, and _left_, wondering just what the _hell_ he had gotten himself (and his employer—who, _by the way_, would be _furious_) into.

* * *

><p>"We really <em>don't <em>need him, you know..." Rose reminded, "We don't need _anyone._ We can do this just the two of us._ Together_…"

"I know," Ricoletti nodded, "I know…"

They were strolling, arm and arm, through the British National Gallery, 'admiring' all the beautiful, priceless artwork (_casing the place_).

It was quite romantic, actually.

Ricoletti didn't know how _anyone_ (Moriarty) could work _without_ a woman (_or a man_—if one happened to swing that way) on hand to help out.

_Before_… when it had just been _him_, (Signor Ricoletti, world's most notorious art thief),_ alone _Ricoletti had only been able to steal paintings (which he did very well) and then sell them.

Sure, that earned him his fame…but not _nearly_ as much _money_ as being able to sell of around ten forgeries (_perfect_ replications, art in their own right) of whatever art he happened to have 'acquired' ('admired' (stolen)) and put up for sale on the black market.

But Ricoletti didn't just do it for the _money._

He did it for the _love._

(…_Awwww_, how _adorable_…)

To think what would have happened to Rose if he hadn't rescued her from that secret _'school'_ in Sicily where they sent all the _'different'_ children (kept them well into adulthood, like Rose's case) who had photographic memories and could replicate any image they'd seen exactly…but couldn't _'fit in'_ with the _'normal'_ people.

Now Rose could (pretend to) be as 'normal' as anyone—when she wanted to. And all it had taken was some individualized attention (which none of the 'students' at the 'school' had received) and some _love._

Ricoletti felt Rose stop, pull away from him and walk towards the wall of hanging paintings.

"Rose?" he called after her, as she pushed past people towards her target.

"This one, Antonio." She said, pointing at it, "_This one._"

"Oh, yes, dear, you're _right_, it's _beautiful_…" Ricoletti nodded, moving to stand behind her and place and hand on her shoulder.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Ricoletti gazed up in awe at the brown and orange landscape of a mountain and a magnificent waterfall.

"No, it's _perfect_." Rose stated.

"It is…" Ricoletti agreed, smiling, "…_We'll take it_."

* * *

><p>"<em>Meet at the coffee shop…"<em> she had said (like he_ knew_ she would) on the phone and so he was there.

Jim_ knew_ Molly would 'come crawling back' back to him, sooner or later, and see the 'error of her ways'…

"Oh, Jim, I'm _so sorry!_ I never should have chosen _Sherlock_ over _you! _Who could be so _stupid?_! You're obviously the _smartest_, the _best_…God, Jim, you're _perfect!_ Won't you please forgive me?"

_Yes. _

Jim could see it now, playing like a movie before his eyes, Molly crying into her cup of coffee across from him at their usual table.

…_except there was one problem. _

When Jim arrived at the coffee shop… _Molly was nowhere to be found. _

(She could just be running late…_No._ When she called she had told him she was already there.)

Jim asked the barista if she had seen a _'mousy looking girl, probably in a labcoat, and dressed like a blind librarian if not, go into the bathroom or something'_.

And the barista said: _"yes, I saw her…your girlfriend, right? I remember you two came in here a couple times before…anyway, she was here…but she left about ten minutes ago". _

Left?

Molly called him there and then just _left?_

_No. _

_Oh _no.

Oh no she_ didn't. _

The nerve of her, intentionally standing him up like that!

When Jim got a hold of Molly she would _burn _for this!

As he stomped away from the counter...

(_and _the barista who was confused and _frightened _when Jim decided, _for some reason_, that he wanted to grind a bag of coffee beans—_with his bare hands_ (needless to say, that didn't work out well…for Jim's bare hands… or the coffee beans))

…Jim passed by his (and Molly's (_their_ (them _together_))) normal table by the window.

On the table lay a dried, faded flower (that smelled terrible from being fished out of the garbage)…

….one of the ones Jim had stolen from various bouquets in various people's arms on his way to Molly's apartment Valentine's Day evening, until he himself (and so _her_) had a full bouquet.

The red hyacinth.

It meant _'play'_.

…so Molly wanted to play a _game_, did she?

Jim grinned and picked up the dead flower.

* * *

><p><em>Where are you, my little mouse? <em>

**####**

_Come find me._

* * *

><p><strong>Ricoletti was the art theif from the 'Reichenbach Fall' episode, in case you forgot. <strong>

**My second best (and almost equally useful) friend, Google, told me that he was originally part of some short play (google 'Ricoletti' and it's the first result) and he wasn't an art theif then (I don't think) but his pretty, young wife was a money counterfiter (she wanted him gone, he wanted her dead)...**

**...yeah, well, changed that bit (fanfiction liberty (excuses, excuses)) so that it worked better with the plot, lol. **

**Hope you liked it! **

**(Hope you review!) **


	26. Tag, You're 'It'

**Happy (late) Easter, everyone! **

**Best wishes!**

**...and _please don't hate me_ for how this one starts (and ends)! **

* * *

><p>"Watch this." Lestrade said, gesturing to the screen.<p>

The security guard pressed a button and all those inside the security office at the National Gallery (Lestrade, the guard, an Interpol agent, Sherlock, John) stared into the screen, watching the black and white image from the night before.

"At eleven o' five pm," Lestrade narrated, "the silent alarm in the landscape section, alerting all the guards and the police. That's when—"

"_Quiet_." Sherlock snapped, pointing a finger towards Lestrade but not looking away from the screen, "…I'm watching…"

Lestrade, blinked away all offense taken, said nothing and continued to as the footage played.

_A man is running, holding a rectangular object under his arm. Three security guards are chasing him._

_They run around the halls of the museum, more and more guards joining the pursuit at each corner turned._

_Finally the man reaches the exit of the gallery and runs outside, down the steps and into the street, followed by all the security guards._

_There, parked in the street with their lights flashing, are several police cars blocking his way._

_Since he cannot run forward, the man tries to run back the way he came but ten guards are blocking him. He has nowhere to run, nowhere to hide._

_He raises his hands in defeat, after, of course, setting the rectangular object gently on the ground._

_The man is apprehended by an officer, put into handcuffs and the back of one of the police cars, and driven away._

_A security guard takes the rectangular object and escorts it back into the gallery, placing it onto an empty space on the wall._

The security guard, seated in his rolling chair, inside the office paused the video, the grayscale image freezing.

"Well it looks like you caught the guy and got the painting back." John commented, "What do you need _Sherlock_ for?"

"Watch this." Lestrade repeated and signaled to the guard to resume videoplay.

The guard pressed the button again and everyone continued to watch.

"This," Lestrade added, "is from when they were all chasing that guy around the gallery."

"_Shhh_." Sherlock reminded.

_Three security guards chase the man down the hallway._

_Once they are gone, another, taller, man, dressed in a uniquely patterned shirt, his face turned away from the camera, walks up to a painting on the wall._

_He takes the painting off of the wall, wraps it in a long black coat and then folds it under his arm._

_He then begins to walk away-but not before turning towards the camera, smiling and waving._

"Stop it there." Lestrade commanded, "And zoom in."

The guard did as he was told and there on the screen was a blurry, close up image of a smiling face with dark hair and eyes.

"It was all a distraction." John declared, "He got away with the real painting. Who _is _that?"

"That," Lestrade began, "Is—"

"_That_," The Interpol agent interrupted, speaking for the first time in her very sexy (at least in John's (and Lestrade's (and probably the security guard's too) opinion) French accent, "is Antonio Ricoletti…we've been chasing him for _years, _and he's always gotten away_._ He steals paintings and then sells them… But recently he's not _only_ been stealing and selling them, but forging _exact replicas_ and selling _those_ as well…"

As she spoke, she walked forward away from the wall she had been leaning against to address the men. Everyone but Sherlock turned to gaze at her in her red skirtsuit, black boots and red lipstick.

"He's an international art thief," Lestrade informed, wanting to remain relevant.

"He's a _genius_." The agent stated.

_That_ got Sherlock's attention, and so he finally turned away from the screen to face her.

"I'll take the case." He said, "I'll catch him."

The Interpol agent snorted, rolling her eyes and folding her arms.

"_You? _Catch _him_?" she laughed, "_Nobody's_ been able to catch _Antonio Ricoletti_, the world's most _notorious_ art thief…what makes you think _you_ can?"

"He's Sherlock Holmes!" John exclaimed, as if that should be explanation enough.

"You'd be surprised what he can do, ma'am." Lestrade agreed, still wanting to remain relevant, "He's solved cases decades cold in less than ten minutes, he has, he's…he's a genius, himself, and more than your average one at that…if genius could ever be considered average…"

"I don't care _who_ he is." The agent insisted, now very seriously, "Nobody's catching Antonio Ricoletti. Nobody but _me_. He can_ help_, if he's even really able to do that… but_ I_ get to make the arrest."

"Well I guess that's fair…" Lestrade shrugged, turning to John who shrugged as well.

"No." Sherlock countered.

"No?" Lestrade raised an eyebrow, turning to him in confusion.

"_No."_ Sherlock repeated.

"Sherlock I don't really think it's your call—" John started but stopped when Sherlock gave him a look.

"She cannot be the one to catch Ricoletti." Sherlock stated, "It doesn't have to be who does, in fact it doesn't even have to be anyone in particular other than someone at least moderately competent…but it cannot be _her_."

"And why _not?_!" The Interpol agent demanded, taken aback and offended.

"Yeah, Sherlock, why not?" Lestrade asked, genuinely confused (and still wanting to stay relevant).

Sherlock chuckled to himself, shaking his head.

"You _really _want me to tell you 'why not'?" he inquired.

"…Yes, _tell us_." The agent challenged, stepping towards Sherlock, eyes looking him up and down as if analyzing him, "Tell _me_."

"Here we go…" John sighed, rolling his eyes and leaning back against wall (kissing all his chances of successfully asking the pretty Interpol agent out for a drink later that day).

"_Because you're in love with him._" Sherlock said plainly.

"What?" The agent exclaimed, jerking back.

"You're in love with Antonio Ricoletti." Sherlock affirmed.

"No I am _not_!" The Interpol agent countered, practically shouting, eyebrows furrowed and red lips pursed.

"_Yes you are_." Sherlock smiled, "How do I know? The way your voice catches, like your heart is pounding, gets several octaves higher when you _say his_ _name._ The way your eyes dilate when you look at his picture and your cheeks turn pink indicating increased blood flow. The way you reacted to my statement…_Just look at you._

You're a high ranking agent of the International Police, and you didn't get all the way there by relying on your looks. No. It's your case record that got you your top level position. Your intelligence, your skills…and _yet_, here you are _all dressed up in red, wearing high-heels and lipstick_. You don't normally dress up. You chase criminals for a living. And you're _good_ at it, too. _You catch them_. It's always 'function over fashion' for you…_except for today_, of course.

You, with your authority are able to pick your own cases, right? Right. And once you heard the name Antonio Ricoletti you snatched that case up for yourself, hopped on a plane to London and _dressed up_…just on the chance you might actually get to see him again. And _yes_, you've seen him _before_, many times. You're not just an admirer from afar…_no. _you go and _get _the things you _want_, or at least you _try_. And Antonio Ricoletti is what you want…You want him because, like you said, he's the _'world's most nutourious art thief'_—did I quote that correctly?—You want him because he's a _genius_. And you _admire_ that. _It excites you_…

And maybe the first time you chased him he did actually get away, which impressed you…but after that one, first time, all the times he's been escaping…it's because you've been letting him. Letting him go so that you can chase him all over the world, again and again. It's all a _game _to you, isn't it? And it's all been _such fun._ Not very good for your record, though, but that doesn't matter because you catch everybody else, don't you? Everybody else except _dear Antonio._

And you never _will_ because you don't want the _game_ to _end_. If it _did_, what then, would you have to _live _for? That,_ ma'am_, is why you cannot be the one to catch Antonio Ricoletti. Because you _won't_."

_**(A/N: broken up for your (and my) convenience)**_

As always, all jaws in the room dropped, fell off their hinges and down to the floor.

The Interpol agent spoke first.

Well, tried to, at least.

"_What—how did you—no—I'm not—I-_"she stammered, stepping backwards away from Sherlock who was staring at her intensely (insanely).

Instantly, John jumped from the wall and went to the woman.

"Ma'am I'm so sorry." he apologized, then turned to his flatmate, "Sherlock, there's _no way_ you could know all that, _not for sure_."

"You don't really believe that, John." Sherlock disagreed, folding his arms and leaning back contentedly, "You know I'm right…and so does she."

He pointed to the agent, who despite her training, was on the verge of tears at the reveal of her most closely guarded secret.

Lestrade awkwardly tried to pat her on the back, but she jerked away and started out of the room.

"_He's lying_…." She muttered.

"No I'm not." Sherlock called after her, "And it'll never work, you know. Enemies don't make good lovers. You'll destroy each other because in the end…_somebody_ has to _win_."

(It was uncharacteristic of him to say, yes. But he was trying to say what he thought Irene might say, had she been here…except, being the logical person that he was, he couldn't think of any fancy metaphors about stars and mirrors to describe it).

The Interpol agent didn't stop to listen to him and continue to hurry out of the security office.

"…should someone…uh…go after her?" The guard asked, watching Sherlock, John and Lestrade who were watching her go. After he received no answer, he decided, "I guess I will then…"

The security guard stood up and ran into the hallway to chase after the agent.

(And he was the one who got to go for drinks with her later, as she wanted to drown her shame and sorrows.)

"…Why's do all the good girls always want the bad boys?" Lestrade complained, after a time of shocked silence, "I see it all the time at the Yard. We'll arrest some _lowlife thug_ and he'll always have this _gorgeous girl_, so pretty and _so nice_, too, come bail him out! …It's _crazy_!"

"_I know_," John sympathized, groaning, "It just isn't _fair_!"

John and Lestrade nodded at each other in their mutual aggravation, Sherlock looking on, _completely_ confused and utterly unable to empathize.

"That was _rude, _you know." John turned and told Sherlock, sternly, "You_ really _should know better than to do that, Sherlock"

"Yeah, Sherlock." Lestrade agreed, with a chuckle, "You can't keep doing that or you'll scare all the good ones away."

"I really don't see the problem here…" Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes and flopping down into the now empty rolling chair, "I just saved Interpol the trouble of a rogue agent and their wanted felon going free once again… and I'm _about _to save Scotland Yard the trouble of _solving this case_, so you should _actually_ be _thanking _me, not _scolding_ me like I'm some _child_."

"Well…" Lestrade conceded, "He_ does _kind of have a _point_."

"_Good."_ Sherlock grinned, spinning in the chair so that he was facing the computer screen of the PICA security system, "Shall we _get to work_, then?"

* * *

><p>If Jim were Molly…<em>where would he hide?<em>

What would Molly do if she were trying to hide from the world's only 'consulting criminal'?

_What would Molly do? _

She wouldn't _hide._

She _knew_ Jim too well; she knew _he_ knew _her_ too well.

She knew that he'd know everywhere she'd go to hide herself and so she knew that she _couldn't_ hide.

But she could _run_, oh she could _run._

* * *

><p>Once again in Molly, Jim opened the closet in her bedroom.<p>

If he was going to go running around London looking for Molly he was going to have to _dress up_.

He didn't want to look like a servant carrying around dry-cleaning so he had left his suits in Molly's closet…

….but he also didn't want to look like a pretentious hipster so, as soon as possible, he had substituted his Mona Lisa t-shirt and red skinny jeans for the standard black pants and white shirt he had 'found' in somebody's locker-room locker at a pool before he went for his _important and essential_ meeting with Doyle, Conan and Arthur that 'just happened' to be at the hospital.

But, of course, they were some kind of department-store brand and so Jim had to change out of that cheap fabric into his 'Team Jim' uniform (he was going to play a _Game_, after all) which was why he was back at Molly's place.

He knew she wouldn't be here.

If she was going to be running from him, she wouldn't be that _stupid _to come back here.

But as Jim pulled one of his suits out of her closet and the drycleaner's plastic covering…

…out fell another dead flower.

The white camellia.

It meant _'adorable'_.

(Now Jim knew that Molly must have looked these flower meanings up…so_ this_ was how the game was going to be played.)

As the dried plant floated downwards, Jim bent down and caught it before it hit the carpet.

* * *

><p>The was no frightened man, with a bomb strapped to his chest and hidden under his jacket, standing across the street from the lamppost on the sidewalk.<p>

But if there _was_… then he would have seen a young man in a nice suit approach the streetlight, kneel and pick up a dried flower.

And if there _was _a man and that man squinted, then he would see that this dried flower was a mock-orange (which is actually white).

And if there _was _man and that man was well-versed in traditional flower symbolism, then he would know that a mock-orange (which is actually white) symbolized _'deceit'. _

_Lies. _

But there wasn't a man that was attached to a bomb and so nobody saw Jim Moriarty stroll down this particular street in downtown London, stop to pick up a dead flower and then continue on his way.

* * *

><p>On his way out of the hospital, Doyle bumped into someone he sincerely didn't think he would see coming back there that evening.<p>

"Mr. Moriarty!" he coughed, worried that his strange associate would take his leaving the _wrong way_ and get _mad._

But Jim paid Doyle no attention whatsoever, pushing past him, as if he didn't even recognize him, and striding into St. Bartholomew's.

Confused but relieved, Doyle sighed and continued his exit.

Jim, however, went right down to the morgue (and down the hall past Conan and Arthur who were attempting to get free snacks out of the vending machine by shaking it) and into Molly's section.

It was cold and it was gray and it was empty.

…except for the dried out flower lying on the metal table.

A yellow begonia.

It meant _'beware'._

Jim took it.

* * *

><p><em>Where to next? <em>Jim wondered as he left the hospital.

Following Molly's little _'clues' _was fun and all, an _adequate distraction_…

…but this was a _game._

He wanted to _win._

Molly could be _clever_, yes, (when she wasn't _afraid_ to be)…

…but if she_ honestly thought _that she could_ actually_ outsmart _Jim Moriarty_…well, he'd have to remind her just _who _was the_ cat_ and who was the _mouse. _

He couldn't just _chase_ her, he had to _trap_ her.

Instead of just running around after her, he had to get _one step ahead _of her.

_That's _how games were _won._

…_.So where to next…? _

So far, the dead flowers had been placed, in chronological order, at locations that Jim and Molly had been together.

The most recent flower obviously represented one of the times he had come visited her at the morgue (either the time he had snuck in, naked inside a bodybag…or the time they had had their little Christmas party with the fake Irene)…so _what_ came after that?

_Where? _

_What_ had Jim done, _where _had he gone?

To Irene. In Israel…?

_No_.

Molly didn't know about that and even if she did, there was no way she'd fly _all the way_ to Israel_ just_ to plant a flower (she didn't take games _that _seriously).

So _where? _

If Jim were Molly…_where would he go?_

If Jim were Molly thinking 'if Molly were Jim'…_where would she go? _

Stumped (No! Not 'stumped'. Just…_temporarily suffering from lack of ideas_) Jim pulled out his phone with one hand and sent a text to Molly.

* * *

><p>'<em>beware'? <em>

_Beware of what, exactly?_

**####**

_You already need a hint? _

**####**

_No, Molly, I need YOU. _

_And we can do this the' easy way' or the 'hard way'. _

**####**

_You left me. _

**####**

_You chose Sherlock._

**####**

_I didn't choose anyone. _

_And I'm not going to. _

**####**

'_hard way' it is then. _

_**####**_

'_beware'._

_**####**_

_Pardon?_

_**####**_

'_beware, mock-orange'. _

_That's your hint._

_**####**_

_I already have that clue, dear._

_And btw, I didn't ask for a 'hint'. _

_**####**_

_Do I have to spell it out for you? _

_**####**_

_No. _

_You looked up the meanings of the flowers._

_I get it._

* * *

><p>…and then, like a spontaneous revelation, he <em>did.<em>

Jim _did_ 'get it'.

Because 'beware' was _not_ the meaning of a mock-orange…

(It was the meaning of a blue violet.)

…and if he 'spelled out' (as in _changed the spelling_) 'beware' turned into 'be where'.

And be _where?_

_Be where, mock-orange_.

Mock-oranges were _not _orange in color, _nor_ were they actually flowers of an orange tree…

…they just _looked like_ orange tree flowers, they were just _pretending_…

_And what else pretended to be orange? _

_Who_ else?

The busboy from the hotel.

The one Molly figured out Jim had caused to overdose on drugs.

The one that had dyed his hair orange (a fact Molly would have noticed during the autopsy) to impress the bartender he had a crush on because she kept a picture of some redheaded actor near her cash register.

'_Beware, mock-orange.' _

(or)

'_Be where, the busboy.' _

(or)

'_Be where the busboy with the fake orange hair was.'_

(or)

'_Meet me at the hotel, love Molly.' _

(All four were correct. Just like the flowers, one thing symbolized another.)

Jim couldn't help but grin.

His little mouse really was quite the player (when she wasn't afraid to be).

Putting his phone back into his suit pocket he started towards the hotel.

* * *

><p>And at primary school, when it was recess and the more outgoing (popular) kids would decide that, instead of hide and seek, they were going to organize a class-wide game of tag…<p>

…Molly would just sit out, alone on one of the swings, rocking slowly back and forth.

She _hated_ those days.

She hated _tag. _

Whenever she was 'it' (those rare times) she could never run _fast enough_ to _catch_ anybody…

…and when she _wasn't_ 'it' (which was almost _all the time_), no matter how slowly she ran, no matter how easy a prey she made herself…_nobody would ever catch her. _

They didn't even _try._

(And it was _sad_, really, because Molly _so_ _wanted _to be _caught_.)

* * *

><p>It was dark outside and inside the hotel, by the bar, it was dimly lit.<p>

There was a new bartender (the old one had been fired for giving alcohol not only to minors but for free) who every so often would refill Molly's drink as she waited patiently for the boyfriend she assured him would arrive (so that he stopped hitting on her).

(There also was a new receptionist and new security guard, as the old receptionist and security guard had both been fired for allowing somebody to impersonate a police officer (or just a drunk chick) and gain access to the security office.)

_It was funny_, Molly thought to herself, how before when she had been so desperately searching for a boyfriend no man seemed to want her and now that she had someone (a _boyfriend?_) suddenly every guy (the new bartender for example) started flirting with her.

It was around nine-thirty PM, and the hotel restaurant that adjoined with the bar was winding down its dinner hour.

Molly sipped her drink slowly, facing away from the bar and watching the revolving door to the hotel.

_Where was Jim?_

He was _supposed_ to be a _genius_; he _should_ have figured out where she was by now…

(Molly wasn't impatient because she wanted to _see _Jim or anything. _No._ No way. That wasn't it _at all_. It was because she was running up a tab on this overpriced bar and this expensive hotel waiting for him…

…which she was only doing because it would distract him from killing Sherlock (and _himself _(no. she didn't _care_ about _that_. She didn't_ care_ about_ him_. No. _No way.._)) and probably lots of other innocent people as well.)

(_Excuses, excuses_.)

Finally, after so long, Molly saw Jim push his way through the spinning doors and head towards her, that grin of his on his face and that intense (insane) look in his eyes.

It was like something out of a movie, really.

_Boy meets girl. _

_Mysterious man come in from the night meets mysterious woman at the end of the bar. _

…how were they going to_ play_ this?

Pretend like they didn't know each other? Like they were just strangers who happened to make acquaintance at a hotel bar…?

No.

Molly had already told the bartender that she was waiting for her boyfriend (and if Jim came up and talked to her, then he would presumably be the 'boyfriend').

So what?

Were they gonna play 'normal couple'? Pretend to be 'boyfriend and girlfriend'?

('Kiss and make up'?)

…_or were they just going to 'be themselves'?_

(And _still_ 'kiss and make up'?..._no!_)

Jim stopped in front of her, taking a moment to look her up and down.

Molly had obviously _dressed-up_ for the occasion.

She was wearing her lipstick and a matching dress (Jim didn't recognize it from her closet, which he had become quite acquainted with) that she must have bought for the occasion.

Molly looked Jim up and down, too, noting that he had been back to her flat to retrieve something _nice_ to wear.

"This is so romantic…so _sentimental_…" Jim commented.

And when he said the word 'sentimental' (the insult he had accused her of being during their 'lover's quarrel') she _knew_ how he was going to _play._

_(_'_When Jim Met Molly'_

_The Movie._

_Staring:_

_Jim Moriarty….as himself.) _

"Jim," she greeted, trying her best 'distantly polite', and setting down her drink.

"_Molly_." Jim matched…but then couldn't hold himself back from breaking into a laugh, "_Really?_ The hotel where _some punk kid who ended up on your morgue table _died? _That's_ where you choose to meet?...and they say _I _have 'problems'."

(Whoever 'they' were. And they were always _right._)

Molly glanced away from Jim over at the bartender, who she was praying hadn't heard what Jim had just said.

Luckily, once the bartender had seen Jim (and kissed his last chance of wooing Molly with free drinks goodbye), he had decided to ignore the pair and tend to his other customers (three middle-aged women on a 'business' trip who were giggling quite loudly and had been for the past twenty minutes, trying to get his undivided attention).

"…it's all just part of the game," Molly mused, in a whisper, "I just thought to myself 'what would Jim do?' and here we are."

She smiled at Jim.

"…_don't tell me you got a room_…" He smirked, "…Because I _know _that's what _I'd_ do."

Molly _had_ gotten a room.

She _knew_ that was what Jim _would do_. In fact, it was what he _had done._

(The price was _ridiculous_, far more than what reasonably fit into Molly's budget- but it was for a 'good cause'…that 'good cause' being distracting Jim _not_ for the 'game'. _Definitely_ not.)

"I _did_." Molly said, standing up. And then she leaned up to whisper in his ear, "Room _two-hundred, twenty-one_…"

* * *

><p>Jim woke up, slowly, the next morning, his head pounding.<p>

The blurry world around him gradually came into focus and he realized he was lying in a bed of some hotel room.

_The_ hotel room.

At first he couldn't even remember what had happened.

(So it was going to be one of _those_ 'morning-afters', again.)

Some of it came back to him though, in bits and pieces, one by one.

First, the flowers…

…_Hyacinth, camellia, violet, mock-orange_…

Mock-orange!

'_Beware, mock-orange'_.

Jim remembered meeting Molly down at a hotel bar (this hotel's bar) and then going upstairs to the room (this room).

Room 221.

…_but what next? _

There was something in here that happened with a teenage boy…_the busboy_…but _that_ was a _while ago_…

…_what had happened last night?_

Jim had given the eager busboy the drugs…_which he had promptly overdosed on. _

No.

That was _before._

...or _was _it?

And then Jim remembered what occurred.

While he had been _distracted _(by the television? Or _what?_)…

…Molly had_ injected_ Jim with some kind of _drug_ that had knocked him out.

_Whoa. _

That _sneaky little bitch_ had drugged _him_!

_Drugged him_, _Jim Moriarty_, _genius 'consulting criminal'!_

Just _who_ did she think she _was?_

He would have to put the little lady back in her place.

…although Jim_ had_ to admit that _god_, Molly _really knew how to play a game! _

(When she wasn't too afraid to, of course.)

But that didn't mean that she would _win._

No.

_Jim_ was going to be the one to _win._

He _always_ won.

And _this_ game would be _no different. _

Jim tried to remember what Molly had said that night, just as she had used the cardkey to open the door to the room.

"_Why?"_ he had asked her, his question needing no elaboration.

"_Because," _she had answered, _"If I don't play 'hard to get' with you…you'll get bored of me…" _

Jim shook his head, chuckling, as he rose from the bed, still groggy and tried to locate his clothing.

There was a dull ache in his arm where Molly had injected him with whatever sedative she had stolen from the hospital to drug him with.

The clock stationed on top of the television read: _11:26._

Below, on the screen, an episode of 'Glee' was playing on pay-per-view.

'_You are the only exception'_ a nerdy-looking girl sang, _'and I'm on my way to_ _believing…'_

Jim grinned.

_Oh, Molly._

He knew where to go next.

* * *

><p>Conveniently enough, Sherlock and John were out on a case and so not home to peek out their window and see Molly Hooper and then, fifteen minutes later, Jim Moriarty 'just happen' to walk by.<p>

Finding nothing there when he arrived, Jim continued past 221b Baker Street, not even checking to see if his favorite (were they his favorite anymore?) distractions were there.

He hurried down the pavement until he reached a certain bench he and Molly had once sat on together, _staring into the sun so long that their eyes burned_ (watching the app—_now broken_—on Jim's phone that show the inside of Sherlock's flat).

Now what sat on it was the fifth faded flower that Jim quickly grabbed and added to his dead but growing bouquet.

A blue violet.

'_Watchful'._

* * *

><p>Now that it was March and things were warming up, more people came to one of London's signature tourist attractions; The Eye.<p>

The line for the slowly turning observation wheel was even longer than it was on Valentine's Day night, being that it was a Friday afternoon.

Jim, luckily, wasn't going to be standing in this line and bypassed the crowd of people as he walked through the park.

First, he checked the bench Molly had made them retreat to upon seeing both Sally Donovan and Anderson (and Anderson's wife)…_but there was no flower._

It had been _cold_ that night, Jim recalled.

He looked over to the tall tree where the group of teenagers had been smoking _something_ before Sally had come and chased them off.

Under the tree, right where the still lit rolled-paper had lain (smoke rising from it up into the sky) had been left behind, was the flower.

Another camellia, this time red.

It meant _'flame'._

Jim walked over, reached down and picked it up.

* * *

><p>The waiter…<p>

(who had been paid a large sum of money anonymously to flirt aggressively with the male half a couple that had come into the restaurant late last Valentine's Day, so that the male would be distracted from the female and the female would leave)

…was not at all pleased to see the female and then, fifteen minutes later, the male half of that same couple return to where he had previously 'dined and dashed'.

(His only, _small_ solace was that they had come separately.)

"Come back to pay your tab?" he asked when Jim arrived, stopping him at the door before he could even walk in.

"Not _this _time." Jim grinned, trying to step around the waiter.

"You're not allowed back in here, then." He said, blocking him.

"But my girlfriend's waiting for me inside." Jim whined.

"No she's not!" The waiter sneered triumphantly, "You're late! She already left. Hopefully for good."

"Which way did she go?" Jim asked, looking up and down the sidewalk in both directions.

"I'm not telling _you_ that." The waiter replied, folding his arms, "Go find her yourself….then you two can take your low-class asses to McDonalds. Maybe you can afford_ that_ so you won't have to 'dine and dash'."

"Oh that's 'rich'," Jim snorted, "coming from a man who's worked in this posh place for twenty years and still can't afford to eat in it. Maybe you should come along to McDonalds with us. All you can eat, _my treat_. What do you say, _sir?_"

"Go to hell." The waiter grumbled and then reached into his waist apron pocket, "..and take your girlfriend and her disgust dead flower with you."

He pulled out the dead flower in question and shoved into Jim's hands.

(It was a white chrysanthemum(_'truth'_)).

"Hell?" Jim repeated, smirking, "That would be a step up from_ here_."

He gestured, dried flower in hand, to the fancy restaurant.

It took all of the waiter's self control not to flick Jim off…_to his face._

He waited until Jim had walked little ways down the street before sticking up his middle finger.

But, _of course_, Jim spun around and blew him a kiss before continuing away.

* * *

><p>Jim practically <em>ran<em> back up the stairs to Molly's floor and towards the door to her apartment.

He _knew _where the _last _flower would be, he knew how Molly was playing this.

This game had been _so much fun_ he was almost _sad _that it was about to come to end (because _'all good things must come to an end'_, they say and 'they' are always _right_).

_Almost. _

(His drive to win (_prove himself_) overpowered his desire to just _enjoy_ being _distracted._)

Who_ knew_ Molly could be so_ brilliant? _

(_He did_.)

(_Sherlock_ didn't. But _he_ did.)

Jim couldn't wait to give her a pat on the head and say 'good girl' for all the effort (careful, clever _thought_) she had put into this.

(His _little mouse_ was growing up…

…he was _so proud_ of her…)

And he_ knew_ where he and Molly had gone after the restaurant.

_Back to her flat. _

So the last flower would be there.

And it _was. _

Lying in on the floor front of the door was a pink peony.

…_what did that one mean again…?_

Jim kneeled and gathered it up with the others, gently so their dry stems break and their faded petals didn't fall off.

…_oh yeah…_

_Shame. _

(_What?_ Was she _ashamed _of him or something?...well, _then again_, it's not like _she _chose these flowers- or their meanings.)

Holding his (her) bouquet in on hand, Jim stood and knocked on the door with the other.

No answer.

…no problem…

_It's not like Jim didn't have a key. _

Jim unlocked the door and, for the third time, strolled into Molly's home as if it was his as well.

"_Honey, I'm home!"_ He called out, closing it behind him.

(The joke would be funny, now that she was here to laugh at it.)

No answer.

Just Toby, trotting up to him and meowing.

Where _was _Molly?

_Where was she?_

This didn't make any _sense._

That was the _last flower_, Molly _should _be here.

Wasn't that the _game_ they were playing?

Follow the flowers, like a trail of breadcrumbs, until he finds the most fragile one of all…the one that had yet to _bloom_, but the only one that was_ alive_.

Molly Hooper.

So_… where was she?_

Had she stood him up _again? _

Didn't she _understand_…?

Didn't she _finally understand_ what he had been trying to explain to her the day they had had the _fight?_

That even the best (_especially_ the best) games had to _end?_

…_.That there needed to be a winner? _

Jim _couldn't believe_ that Molly, for all her _genius _(yes, he'd said it; _genius_) in orchestrating this 'game of cat and mouse', _still didn't understand_.

This is what they'd been arguing about!

Jim remembered, now, what he had said to Molly the night before when she had told him that she had to 'play hard to get' in order to keep his attention.

"_Games like these aren't any fun, love, if you don't let me win…"_

Why couldn't she _understand?_

…Why couldn't she just _give up _and_ let him win?_

_Who_ did she think she _was,_ anyway?

_Sherlock Holmes?_

No.

_Hell_ no.

Jim scoffed, rolling his eyes.

Little Molly Hopper_, the nobody_, thought she could replace _Sherlock Holmes_.

She was _stupider_ (and _much more_ overconfident) than he had given her credit for.

Jim started to snicker, shaking his head.

(And Toby bristled, hissed and scurried away.)

Jim wasn't _stupid._

_He knew_ what Molly was trying to _do._

She was trying to _distract_ him.

She was trying to _'replace'_ Sherlock in his focus, therefore _protecting_ Sherlock.

Once again, it was _all about Sherlock Holmes_ for Molly Hooper.

But Sherlock was _his._

Molly couldn't _have _him.

(But Molly was _his._

Sherlock couldn't _have _her.)

And if Molly was going to try to _play this game_ with him, then Jim just simply wasn't going to _participate._

Besides, he had _better things to do._

(And Jim had loads of ways to distract himself that didn't involve Molly Hooper.)

* * *

><p>"<em>What <em>are you doing here?" Rose demanded, aiming the gun towards Jim as soon as he entered the warehouse.

Ricoletti raised a hand to lower her armed arm.

"I see you managed to steal the painting without my help, Signor Ricoletti." Jim stated, gesturing to where ten canvases stood, propped up by wooden easels.

_Nine_ of them were exact replicas, _beautiful art in their own right_…

…and _one_ of them was the original 'Reichenbach Falls' painting.

"Mr. Moriarty…" Ricoletti greeted (both nervously and suspiciously), approaching Jim, "…_I wasn't expecting you_..."

"We don't need _his_ help!" Rose snapped, bringing back up her gun, "We don't _need _him!"

"Rose, _hush_." Ricoletti silenced her with his already outstretched arm, and then turned back to Jim, "…How may I _help_ you, _sir?_"

"Sherlock Holmes took your case, didn't he?" Jim asked.

"…So I've _heard_." Ricoletti confirmed, nodding, "…he's some kind of detective?"

"_Consulting_ detective." Jim corrected, "The world's only."

Ricoletti smiled.

" 'Consulting detective'?" he repeated, "_Oh I see_…He's the world's only 'consulting detective'…and _you're _the world's only 'consulting criminal'."

"Finally!" Jim exclaimed, "_Somebody '_gets it'!"

"So you two have your own… _specialties._" Ricoletti continued.

In his overdone Italian accent he pronounced 'specialties' as 'speh-shi-ul-al-lit-tees'.

"Yes." Jim affirmed, "And my most special 'specialty'… " (he mimicked Ricoletti's pronunciation) "is _Sherlock Holmes_…_ I_ can help you _escape_ him…_and _the police _and_ Interpol, _too_."

"We don't _need _your help!" Rose spoke up in a shout, "We don't need _anyone._"

"Rose!" Ricoletti warned, immediately, "_Please!_"

"But it's true!" Rose insisted, "You know it is, Antonio. _We need no one._ Tell him, Antonio! Tell Signor Moriarty _we don't need him_. Tell Signor Moriarty to _leave_."

"I am sorry about this, Mr. Moriarty." Ricoletti apologized, looking at Jim, then at Rose, then back at Jim and then back at Rose once more, "_Women…._You know how they get."

"_Tell me about it_." Jim sighed exaggeratedly.

Ricoletti turned back to his wife.

"Just go finish the paintings, Rose" he told her, "and he and I will work out a deal."

"…fine." Rose conceded, with a groan, "Whatever you want."

"I love you." Ricoletti stated, leaning foreword and kissing her on the cheek.

"_I_ love _you_." Rose replied, nodding, then turning and walking back over to the row of paintings in various states of completion (nine _fakes_, one _real_…_all art_).

Ricoletti watched Rose go, pick up her paintbrush and return to her work (magic), before addressing Moriarty once her back was turned.

"…isn't that _sweet_." Jim snorted.

He pulled out a gun from his suit pocket, aimed and shot Ricoletti in the foot.

The world's most notorious art thief fell to the floor instantly, crying out in pain, the thundering gunshot still echoing off the warehouse walls.

"_Che diavolvo!"_ Rose screamed in shock, whirling around to see her husband on the ground and Jim holding a gun, _"Bastardo!"_

She pointed her gun at him.

"Go ahead, Signora." Jim challenged with a grin, arms opened wide, "_Shoot me._"

"I'll _kill _you!" Rose threatened.

She clicked the trigger about a hundred times but no bullets fired.

Jim just laughed.

Of course, it wasn't a _real_ gun (Jim knew a fake when he saw one). What would art thieves have a _gun _for?

In frustration, tears forming in her eyes, Rose threw the gun aside sharply and rushed to kneel beside Ricoletti who was just now sitting up.

"_Why?_" he asked Jim, as he clutched his bleeding foot.

"Sherlock Holmes." Jim answered, simply, as if it needed no other explanation.

Ricoletti's wincing reddened gaze just _stared _at Jim in confusion.

Jim groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Do you _really_ need me to spell it out for you? _Idiots_…" he complained, "Fine, then. I'll _explain. _And I'll try to keep it _simple_-_for those who don't understand English…_Like I said, _my 'specialty' is Sherlock Holmes_…Sherlock Holmes is on _your_ _case_… _I need_ Sherlock Holmes to _solve _your case…I need him to solve your case because _you _are the world's most notorious art thief. If he solves your case, he will get _famous_… _I need Sherlock Holmes to be famous_."

There was silence, then.

In that silence they could hear the pattering of helicopters quickly growing closer.

The police, or Interpol, or Sherlock Holmes, or whoever was after Ricoletti were on their way.

_How_ they had found the warehouse so soon, Mr. and Mrs. Ricoletti _did not know_.

(But, Jim, of course _did._ It was because Sherlock Holmes was a bloody genius. That's how.)

"Why would you do this?" Rose sobbed.

"_I. just. told. you!_" Jim yelled, slapping his high forehead and then slicking back his dark brown hair, "…Weren't you _listening?_!"

"I mean—"Rose struggled to find the correct phrasing in English, "_How_ could you do this?"

Jim shook his head again, continuing to laugh.

"You're crazy!" Ricoletti accused.

"You're right." Jim affirmed.

"Get out!" Rose commanded, standing up and pointing towards the door, "Leave right now!"

"As you wish, Signora." Jim agreed, feigning a bow as he backed away, "…and you know, Signora…_you_ could leave too. Before the police get here. You could escape."

"No we can't!" Rose disagreed, "He's injured, he can't walk, he—"

"I never said _him_." Jim interrupted, "I said _you…_You're_ right_ about him. He's injured. And there's _no way_ he'll be able to get out before the authorities arrive. _In fact_, he'll probably walk with a limp the rest of his life…_you_, on the other hand, _can go free_. _You_ can escape before they catch you. Before they catch you and lock you back in that '_art_ _school'_… _all alone_…"

Rose's breath caught upon Jim's mention of the 'school'.

So did Ricoletti's.

"_You have run_." He told her, pulling on her arm so that she would look him in the eyes, "They only want _me._ They don't want _you_…they don't even _know_ about _you_. You have to escape. _I don't want you in a prison!"_

"But I can't—" Rose cried, "I can't just leave you—"

"_Sure_ you can!" Jim shrugged, "…you can even come with _me_, if you _want. _You know…so you don't get _lonely_…

Rose ignored him.

She bent to sit beside her husband, holding his hand tightly.

"I'll _never _leave you." She declared.

"Rosetta…" Ricoletti coughed, looking up at her, "If you stay…you know you'll be taken to jail…we'll be separated—"

"If I _ran _we'd be separated." Rosa reminded, seriously, "_I will not_ _run._ _I will not leave you_."

"Suit yourself, then." Jim grumbled, taken aback.

Why would anyone forfeit their own freedom, just to stay behind with someone who was too weak to escape?

It was like a _healthy gazelle_ staying behind with a _sick, slow gazelle_ and allowing itself to be _eaten by the lions_ along with it.

It just wasn't _natural._

Jim decided, then, that _all women_ were just _stupid._

_And on that note_, he exited the warehouse.

* * *

><p>But that <em>wasn't<em> the last flower.

The peony, _the shame_…

…it wasn't the final flower.

Sitting by herself, on the bench in King's Cross train station, like she had been for the last three hours, was Molly.

(She was_ waiting_ (like she _always_ was) for someone that wasn't going to _come_.)

And twisting in between her restless, impatient fingers was a dead, dried and faded purple flower.

The_ last_ flower.

A spider-flower.

'_Elope with me'._

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry!<strong>

**But it's too keep everything in canon, I swear! **

**They'll get back together eventually! **

**(And the flower meanings are from www. 800florals care / meaning. asp (spaces removed).)**

**'The Reichenbach Fall' events begin next chapter! **

**Review?**

***Puppy dog eyes or something like that* **


	27. Fairies

**So tired...**

**...it's been too long...**

**...need sleep...**

**...will reply last chapter's reviews tomorrow...**

* * *

><p>Once upon a time there was a scared little girl who hid herself under a hooded cloak.<p>

_If she was so afraid, then why did she choose such a bright covering?_

It was red.

And it stood-_she_ stood out amongst the brown and green trees of the dark forest where she lived.

They called her Little Red Riding Hood.

One day Little Red Riding Hood was walking through the woods to visit her grandmother.

Her grandmother was dying

And everyday Little Red Riding Hood made this journey through the dark forest to tend to her.

_Normally,_ she saw no one, spoke to no one.

Normally, she was _alone._

But on this particular day (which was as dark as night under the shade of the looming trees) she met someone on the path.

Little Red Riding Hood met the Big Bad Wolf.

And the Big Bad Wolf was _hungry._

He couldn't help but smile at her, baring all his sharp fangs, and stare at her with his burning black eyes.

But Little Red Riding Hood didn't_ see_ the _danger_ right in front of her; Little Red Riding Hood was n_aïve. _

(Or maybe, she was just _lonely_, having never met anybody else before and desperately wanting somebody to talk to.)

_She smiled back._

* * *

><p>Molly waited four more hours for Jim at the train station, holding that final flower, four of them knowing that he would not come (<em>for her<em>).

And as she unlocked and opened the door to her flat she hoped that maybe (_just maybe_) he would be there waiting for her, stretched out asleep on her couch, but she knew he wouldn't be.

And he _wasn't. _

What was there, however, were the rest of the dead flowers.

Shriveled, faded and dry, they had been ground into dust and lay like the ashes of the dead on the floor.

They blew away with the wind from the door.

Molly watched the bits of flower dance in the air before closing the door behind her and going into kitchen.

She sat down at the counter, pulling out her phone.

She knew Jim wouldn't pick up but she called anyway.

With a sigh, Molly set down her phone.

_How had this all gone wrong?_

She had worked _so hard_ on this 'game', _so hard_ on keeping _his attention_…

(And he had _liked_ it, too, at first. _Loved_ it. She had seen it in his eyes. The way they _burned_ when he spoke about Sherlock, they were burning that way for _her_.)

(And they had been _alive_ that night. _She_ had been alive. _Yes,_ playing the Game had _woken her up_…but with after the _high_, there came _the fall back down_. The _shame_. It was _wrong._ She _knew_ it was wrong. It was wrong, feeling _alive,_ if _this_ is what made her feel that way… It was _wrong_. She _knew_ it was wrong. It was wrongthe way _he_ made her feel, _alive_, and wrong that she felt it.)

…but all her efforts had failed.

She had _lost._

(And maybe that's what Jim had _wanted._ Because he _always_ wanted to _win._ And in order for there to be a _winner_, there had to be a _loser_…but he didn't understand. He just didn't _understand_…she was going to _let him win_. Just like he had asked. She was going to let him win. _No._ Not just 'going to'. _No._ She already _had_.._._ _She already had.)_

Molly couldn't believe that she had actually thought she'd have a _chance._

(_At what?_ At _winning?_ But she was going to let him win…so what, then? Maybe for her, winning meant _something else._ Maybe for her 'winning' and 'letting him win' were the _same thing…_because, _maybe_, she didn't play the Game to _win_. Maybe she played it just to play with _him_. Just to _be_ with him.)

Of course, Jim would get _bored_ of her.

_Of course. _

Molly thought that she should really be _thanking god_ that he hadn't _killed_ her.

Molly thought that she really should be relieved (_happy_) that he was _gone._

But what Molly thought she _should _think and what she _actually thought_ were _not _the same thing.

(And she _knew _it, too. Knew it with the most _shame_ she had ever felt before. And shame, now, was her (second) strongest feeling.)

Soon Jim would do _something_ (something _bad_) to Sherlock and there would be _nothing _Molly could do to stop it (stop _him_).

And Jim and Sherlock would both probably end up _dead._

It was funny (depressing), actually, how Jim (who knew _everything_—especially about _her_) had been so completely _wrong._

Jim had thought Molly cared more about Sherlock than him.

(How did he not _understand? _How did he not_ see_ that it wasn't when he had said that he would kill _Sherlock_ that he had scared her, it was when he had said that he would kill _himself. _How did he not _know?_)

Maybe it was because he, _like Molly_, knew that she _should _care more about Sherlock than him (a criminal, a killer)…but what Molly knew she _should_ care about and what she actually _did _care about were _not _the same thing.

Now, don't get Molly _wrong_, it wasn't that she didn't care about Sherlock _at all_…

…it was just that Sherlock didn't _notice _her.

Jim _did._

But Jim was _bad._

Jim was_ bad _and Sherlock was _good._

But Jim _noticed_ her, Sherlock _didn't._

(There was a _choice_ here, Molly realized. A choice between the selfish and the selfless. Right and wrong. Good and bad… _Molly didn't want to make it._ )

Molly allowed herself, just one more time, to imagine (just as she had been imagining as she waited for him at the train station) what might have happened if Jim had come (for her).

If he hadn't gotten _bored_ with her.

Would they have run away (eloped) together like they had almost done the time right before he had been arrested?

Would they have gotten on some train (any train, _it didn't really matter_) and gone somewhere (anywhere, _it didn't really matter_)?

Would they have _escaped? _

Escaped to somewhere (anywhere) where who they _were_ didn't matter and they could be _anyone that they wanted to be? _

Would they have been free?

_No. _

Of course they wouldn't have.

_Of course. _

Because even if they _had_ run away (eloped) together like they had almost done the time right before he had been arrested…

…there was nowhere that who they _were _didn't matter and no matter who they _pretended to be_ they wouldn't _change._

No matter who _anyone_ pretended to be, _people didn't change._

_Jim wouldn't (couldn't) change. _

(And even if he _did _change, that still wouldn't change what he had already _done._)

Jim was _bad. _

But Jim_ noticed_ Molly.

Not anymore, though, _not anymore…_

Molly set down her phone next to the last flower (the spider-flower) still solid (but still _dead_) on the counter.

She didn't feel like it, but she knew she had to go into work later.

(She had been taking _way too much_ time off, lately…but she wouldn't be anymore, now, of course.)

Next to the phone and the flower Molly saw her remote.

It had been lost for days (Molly being to busy to look for it (not anymore, though)) and now it was _found._

Just like that.

Molly sighed again, picking it up and using it to turn on the television from across the room (the kitchenette being across from the living room).

She saw the familiar characters appear on screen, talking and laughing together.

Although she hadn't had the time to watch her favorite shows in a while (not anymore, now) Molly realized that she knew these fictional people so well-_much more_ than she did most of the people she saw everyday (on the tube, at the hospital, in her building) that she had been seeing everyday for years.

She knew their hopes, their deepest secrets, their feelings, who they loved, who they hated, _their whole life stories…_

…and they didn't even _know _her.

They weren't even _real._

_This was Molly's life. _

(At least it _was_…and now would be again.)

Surrounded by so many people (real and fictional), so many people that didn't _notice_ her.

_Alone. _

Molly watched her 'old friends' on the screen, not bothering to travel over to the couch (where she had hoped that maybe (just maybe) Jim would be stretched out asleep on, waiting for her).

This would be her life.

This would be her distraction.

She clicked a button on the remote, switching to the news channel, since at least it was _real._

(Un)surprisingly enough, they were talking about how Sherlock had solved some case or something.

_Genius, as always. _

(Boring?)

Molly supposed she'd read about it in Doctor Watson's blog eventually.

She was envious of the doctor, really, what an _exciting_ life it must be to bask in the light of _someone like_ Sherlock Holmes.

('someone like'…but _who_ is like Sherlock Holmes? _Surely no one_…)

But Molly wasn't so lucky.

She just went to work, went home and watched television.

This was her life.

This was her _distraction._

* * *

><p>Once upon a time there was a cookie baked in the shape of a human being and he was alive.<p>

The Gingerbread Man

Everybody in the kingdom wanted a piece of him because he was _just the sweetest little pastry there ever could be. _

That and everybody was _hungry._

_So hungry._

And so they chased The Gingerbread Man all through the town and The Gingerbread Man _ran._

And as he ran he sang out his favorite rhyme, "run, run as fast as you can…you can't catch me—_I'm The Gingerbread Man!"_

He did this because he _knew_ what he was.

He knew that he was _just the sweetest little pastry there ever could be_ and that everybody _wanted_ him and that everybody was _hungry, so hungry_.

He did this to taunt them.

"Run, run as fast as you can…you can't catch me—_I'm The Gingerbread Man!"_

But finally, after miles and miles of running, miles and miles of people chasing him, miles and miles of everybody _wanting _him, The Gingerbread Man reached a _river. _

A river with no crossing.

And, just for a moment, The Gingerbread Man was _afraid._

Afraid that he'd be _caught._

Afraid that he'd be eaten and _so cease to exist_ and that everybody who ate him would have just a little piece of his _sweetness_ inside of them which would mean that not only was he _gone,_ but that he was no longer _special _anymore.

The Gingerbread Man considered this and considered throwing himself into the river so at least when he_ died_ no one would be able to _eat him_ and his sugar would dissolve into the rushing waters.

But as the people chasing him grew nearer, all still _hungry, so hungry, _a Fox approached him.

The Fox, seeing his predicament and being just that kind of Good Samaritan, offered to carry The Gingerbread Man across the river.

He, too, knew that The Gingerbread Man was just the _sweetest little pastry there ever could be _and he wanted that special sweetness _all to himself. _

And The Gingerbread Man didn't see the _danger_ right in front of him; The Gingerbread Man was _naïve._

He accepted.

And as they forded the river, getting deeper and deeper with each step taken, The Fox kept telling The Gingerbread Man that he wouldn't want him to get washed away by the water and drown, that he wouldn't want him to _die._

"Climb onto my shoulders, it's _safer,_" he said, and then, "climb up onto my head, it's _safer_," and the finally, _"climb into my mouth."_

And The Gingerbread Man _did._

The Fox opened his jaws, _hungry, so hungry_, and The Gingerbread Man stepped inside.

As he did, The Gingerbread Man looked back, _one last time_, at the kingdom he had come from, all the hungry people stood on the bank of the river unable to chase him into it.

The Gingerbread Man called back to them, _one last time_, his favorite taunting rhyme unaware as The Fox slowly closed his salivating mouth.

"_Run, run as fast as you can…you can't catch me—"_

* * *

><p>The lights flashed, blinding Sherlock as he squinted trying to shield his eyes with the dark sleeve of his coat.<p>

He feared the day that it would be too warm to wear it and so he'd be left unprotected.

It was coming soon.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes!" the crowd of reporters buzzed, swarming around him and John just as soon as they stepped outside of Scotland Yard, "How _did _you do it? How _did_ you solve the Reichenbach Falls case? How _did_ you catch Antonio Ricoletti, the world's most notorious art thief?"

Sherlock didn't respond to them, instead pulling up the collar of his jacket around his face to obscure its detail in any of their inevitable photographs.

174.

…or more, probably (there had been that many flashes at least but there were always cameras without flashes and camera-phones).

"No questions!" John finally requested, seeing Sherlock's frustration as he tried to push through the crowd of media personnel…

…who chose to ignore his words.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes!" they continued.

"Please, let us through!" John tried again.

He and Sherlock were now being blocked by a wall of reporters, standing shoulder to shoulder, waving their notepads and clicking their cameras.

"Dr. Watson!" they shouted, now addressing John having realized that Sherlock wasn't going to talk, "Will this be written up into your blog? How did he do it? What was your role in this case?"

"…I…um…" John trailed off, unsure of what to say when accosted by camera flashes like bombs exploding and chattered words as persistent and quick as bullets hammering out of automatic weapons.

Unconsciously he came to a halt, eyes darting and blinking, seeing them in front of him and then seeing something _else._

_Now_ Sherlock suddenly decided that he wanted to make a long, detailed explanation of how he solved the case; finding the stolen painting and catching the thief.

He cleared his throat and then opened his mouth to deliver the monologue, immediately being surrounded by the reporters that left John on the outside of the circle, their backs turned to him.

"Records and security footage from the London International Airport showed that Antonio Ricoletti only just arrived in the country yesterday _and yet_ by this afternoon he had _already_ stolen the 'Reichenbach Falls' and had several forgeries he was advertising the black market, as if they were the original. In order for him to have that many exact copies within _mere hours_ of stealing the painting he would have had to have started the forgeries before actually stealing the original so that they could dry and then he could falsify their aging properly.

To be able to successfully do this Antonio Ricoletti would have to not only be a speed painter but have perfect eidetic recall—_a photographic memory_. He does _not_…but Rosetta Ricoletti- nee Monteriva—_does_. And airport records showed that she arrived in London just after Antonio Ricoletti, her husband. Mrs. Ricoletti's artistic abilities have been public knowledge since videos posted on the internet revealed her talents, leading to a feature in a prominent Italian newspaper and an entire documentary about the institution she resided in for the exceptional and the abnormal…

_No doubt_ this is how Antonio Ricoletti discovered her and the reason why he married her, so that he could act as her legal guardian and discharge her from the facility. Quite easily, police and I discovered a warehouse rented under Rosetta Ricoletti's maiden name where we tracked them to and apprehended them.

Although Ricoletti has managed to keep his wife a 'secret' for the past three years, this information is all a matter of public record, easily accessible, especially by Interpol, who, for some reason, still did not manage to detect this link and uncover the Ricoletti partnership and operation…probably because the agent handling the case had become infatuated with her target and was unable to accept that he had a lover other than herself and so selectively hid this information from her own mind…or, perhaps, she was really just that _stupid_… That is all. Thank you. Have a nice day."

Sherlock said.

_And the crowd went wild. _

Again the cameras were flashing in immediate, unending succession along with the questions they were asking.

Sherlock somehow managed to feed this hungry flock of vultures, until Lestrade was kind enough to send out some uniformed officers to chase them away.

Once they were finally gone, John (who was able to see Sherlock again now that the reporters were no longer in the way) blinked.

"They just don't give up, do they..." He complained, sighing.

"It's only going to get worse." Sherlock agreed bitterly.

He turned, pulling his coat closer around him, and restarted his path down the sidewalk.

John followed.

* * *

><p>Once there was a man so proud of his <em>golden mind<em> he swelled, fat and round like an egg.

His name was Humpty Dumpty.

He climbed to the top of the highest wall and declared himself the master of the world.

Declared himself a king because he knew _everything._

Declared himself a _god_ because his mind was _golden like the burning sun. _

Oh, but with pride comes _insecurity _and _sensitivity._

Humpty Dumpty was thin-skinned.

His immaterial richness, his _golden mind_, was protected only by a fragile, white _shell._

And atop that high wall from where, only by his own legitimacy and _only in his own mind_, he _ruled the world _Humpty Dumpty stood.

He stood there talking and talking, without stopping, telling everyone everything he ever knew because, _as the master,_ it was his _duty_ to inform the ignorant masses who would be completely in the _dark _without his _golden, burning light._

But _stupid people_ don't_ like_ to be told that they're _stupid. _

And maybe it _was ' _just the wind' and _not_ the jealous hands of the ignorant masses (either way it didn't matter, though)…

…but _something_ pushed Humpty Dumpty down from that wall where he was a _god._

_And he fell._

Humpty Dumpty stood on a wall.

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

An all the king's horses and all the king's men…

…couldn't put Humpty Dumpty together again

No, they didn't even _try._

Because nobody _likes_ to be told that they're _stupid _and nobody _even asked_ for some know-it-all to be their _god._

And when Humpty Dumpty hit the ground, his thin, white _skull_ cracked and his _golden mind_ came pouring out, shinning like the sun and like egg-yoke.

* * *

><p><em>It was perfect.<em>

It was all _perfect._

Jim grinned.

Jim Moriarty was a 'consulting criminal' but Richard Brooke was an actor.

Jim Moriarty was a 'consulting criminal' but Richard Brooke was a _storyteller. _

And Richard Brooke was recording such darling little stories, _fairytales_, and everything was _just so._

Jim leaned backed in the bed as he watched the television.

He was in 221.

No, _not_ 221b Baker Street…room 221 at the hotel.

He had never checked out (nor had Molly, whose credit card it was still on) and so after another successful day of shooting (no, _not_ shooting _people_…shooting children's television) he had simply just returned to the hotel (where he had been staying ever since that stupid distracting distraction with that Mary Howitt girl (or whatever her name was) who he was _not _going to waste his time on anymore).

On the screen a reporter described how _'consulting detective Sherlock Holmes solved the case of the stolen painting, the 'Reichenbach Falls', which led to the arrest of Antonio Ricoletti, world's most notorious art thief, his wife Rosetta Ricoletti and a rogue Interpol agent who was helping them whose name has not been released'._

Perfect.

_It was just so perfectly perfect! _

Soon Sherlock would be so famous that he could not _hide_ and when one was at the top there was nowhere else to go but _down. _

And it was all _perfect._

Even the little details, _all perfect._

Of all the paintings in the National Gallery, Ricoletti had decided to steal the 'Reichenbach Falls'.

'Reichenbach _Falls_'

…_Fall…_

It was perfect!

And if Jim remembered his German from school (yes, he took German, rather than French, in protest because they didn't offer Gaelic, and 'German' and 'Gaelic' both started with a 'G') then 'Reichenbach' meant 'riches brook'.

'_riches brook'_

Richard Brooke.

_Perfect, see? _

It was fate.

(…Or _maybe_ it was the fact that the day Jim had gone into the Mountford Talent Agency's office there had been an advertisement for the painting in a newspaper he had read in the waiting room.)

(But even 'Mountford' meant 'mountain river crossing'…and _what _kind of river ran through a mountain? _A waterfall_.)

Yes, _fate._

And the stories, too, the fairytales…they were all German.

The Brother's Grimm.

It all added up just _perfectly._

(And it was _okay_ that the Reichenbach Falls were actually in Switzerland because _where _was Switzerland, after all? Between Germany, the country of the language and Italy, the country of the art thief.)

This was the kind of perfect, orderly plan that James would have _loved._

Oh, he would be _so proud_ of his little brother…

…_that is, if he hadn't disowned him. _

But now, Jim Moriarty had to_ die_ and so that's _exactly_ what he was going to _do._

Jim Moriarty was going to die and from his ashes Richard Brooke would be born.

Perfect, perfect, _perfect._

Jim's phone rang.

He reached over to where it lay on the bedside table and silenced it.

Jim Moriarty was _unavailable._

He wasn't taking any calls or answering any texts meant for Jim Moriarty because Jim Moriarty was 'Richard Brooke' and Richard Brooke was an actor—_not_ a 'consulting criminal'

No more annoying 'clients' begging him to 'fix it' for them again and again and again.

No more of the 'same old, same old'.

_It was all too boring._

But _this_, this was _perfect._

Jim looked into his smartphone.

Which plebian would it be, _this time,_ come to interrupt him in his _perfect world? _

'_Missed call from: Little Miss Mouse' _

Oh, so Molly Hooper wanted to call him _now!_

Well it was _too late._

_Too bad. _

Jim Moriarty was _unavailable._

Jim Moriarty was 'Richard Brooke'.

And Richard Brooke was _normal._

…but wasn't it _'normal'_ to have a girlfriend?

* * *

><p>Once upon a time there was a Spider and a Fly.<p>

"Come into my parlour…" said The Spider to The Fly.

But The Fly was _not stupid._

She saw the _danger_ right in front of her; she was _not_ naïve.

"_No_." said The Fly to The Spider.

But The Spider was _hungry._

And so, The Spider was _persistent._

"What can I do?" asked The Spider to The Fly, "to prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?"

"Nothing, kind sir." answered The Fly to The Spider.

But The Spider was _hungry._

And so, The Spider was _persistent._

He watched The Fly fly away but he _knew_ that she would be back.

And she _was._

"You're witty and wise," told The Spider to The Fly, "beautiful, with such brilliant eyes…"

"Oh, thank you, kind sir!" said The Fly to the Spider in surprise, "I've never received such compliments before!"

But The Fly was _not stupid._

She saw the _danger_ right in front of her; she was _not_ naïve.

The Fly still refused his offer to enter his parlour and flew away

But The Spider was _hungry._

So, The Spider was _persistent._

The Spider _knew_ that she would be back.

And she_ was. _

He called her to come hither, told her that the crest on her head looked like a diamond crown and she flew to him.

"No one sees your beauty like I do." said The Spider to The Fly, "I've a looking-glass in my parlour, come inside so you can see your beauty too."

And The Fly was _not_ _stupid._

She saw the danger right in front of her; she was not _naïve. _

But The Fly had never heard such _flattery_ before.

And the _silly little, poor foolish thing_ wanted to hear it more.

"Come into my parlour…" said The Spider to The Fly.

…_and then…_

The Fly flew into his parlour and ne'er came out again.

* * *

><p><strong>(AN: and let's, for the sake of the story, pretend that that was a fairytale.)**

* * *

><p>Finally the screen went black.<p>

Although they were not horror movies, those videos were the _creepiest_ thing that Molly had ever in her life seen.

For a long moment Molly just sat, legs folded and Toby asleep next to her, on her couch, gaping in shock at the television screen.

_What the hell_ was _that _supposed to be?

What could _possibly_ be Jim Moriarty's motivation for sending some strange DVDs of him telling his own messed up versions of famous fairytales?

Was he trying to send her some kind of _message?_

English class had never been Molly's favorite during school, she had never been any good at _analyzing stories_…

…what did Jim _mean_ by all of these?

Were they, like, some kind of…_metaphor_ (that's what they were called, right?) or something?

Were they _symbols_ for something?

Molly shook her head, still staring at the blank screen (still hearing Jim's voice echo, still _seeing his face _grin dementedly, in her mind).

She reached for her remote, pressing the button to replay the videos.

Half way through re-watching, Molly heard a knock on the door.

Oh _god._

Jim had sent this weird movie and now he was here to make _whatever his message was _no longer 'just a story' but a _reality. _

Tentatively, Molly paused the video, stood and went to the door.

She took a deep breath and then opened it.

"Hey, Molly." Lestrade greeted, a bit awkwardly, with a slight wave.

"…uh _hello_…?" Molly replied, not expecting to see him and not sure whether to be relieved or annoyed, "…Detective Inspector Lestrade…what can I do for you?"

Mostly it was just really _awkward._

"Please," Lestrade said, "Call me Greg…"

"Okay…"

Molly's door was only opened just a crack, which was not going to be growing anytime soon even though Lestrade obviously wanted to come inside.

"May I come in?" he asked.

"No!" Molly exclaimed, remembering the video paused on her television screen, and then added, "I mean…it's messy! My flat's really messy. You don't _want _to come in here…"

"I'm sure it's fine." Lestrade smiled, "I have kids, remember, I'm used to messy homes!"

He laughed…_awkwardly_, and so did she.

She was in her pajamas and it would have been even _more_ awkward, as well as embarrassing… if she had still _cared _what Lestrade thought of her (which, as long as he didn't find out about what happened between her and Jim, she _didn't_).

"It's just…well, my cat…" Molly fumbled, "Toby. He threw up. And I didn't get a chance to clean the litter box…I'll just talk to you out here in the hallway…"

She squeezed herself through the tiny opened and then shut the door behind her.

Lestrade looked at her with that confused, questioning expression he always seemed to have when he was around her.

…Always _just short_ of _suspicious_….

"How can I help you?" Molly asked him, _just a bit_ sharply because she didn't like that face.

Then she instantly felt bad about it and so smiled.

Lestrade smiled back.

It was all still very awkward.

(Which didn't 'bode well' for whatever it was that he wanted to talk to her about.)

"Well…" Lestrade sighed, "You _have_ heard about the Ricoletti case Sherlock just solved, right?"

"Yes." Molly confirmed, "I saw it on the news…"

"Okay. _Good_." Lestrade nodded, "That's good…So we caught the guy, Antonio Ricoletti, and his wife Rosetta who was forging copies of the paintings he stole for him to sell…"

"…okay…?"

"Well, when we caught him he was on the ground and somebody had shot him in the foot. Now we think it was his wife Rosetta, who has a history of mental problems, and that he's just covering for her…_but_…."

" 'but' _what?_"

"But when we got there and asked what happened, Ricoletti, he said that it was…well, he told us that it was _Moriarty_ who shot him. He said Moriarty just showed up there at the warehouse, shot him in the foot and ran away."

Molly tried her best to conceal any reaction to the name 'Moriarty' from being expressed on her face.

"Okay…?" she said for the third time, "…What does that have to do with _me?_"

She tried her best to make her voice sound as innocent and confused as possible.

Lestrade took a breath, clearly feeling _awkward _about what he was going to have to say next.

(And, for a second, Molly thought that he _knew_…but then reasoned that if he did, then he would have just arrested on sight or something like that.)

"Well…" he said for the fourth time, "Remember when you said he was…well," (fifth) "…_contacting you_…"

"…yeah, I _do_…" Molly responded, indeed remembering the_ embarrassing_ failed plot to ambush Jim at the coffee shop.

"Then, um, I'm sure you know why I'm here." Lestrade continued, wiping sweat from his forehead, "I'm here to ask if you have _any _information on him or if he's still contacting you—"

"He's not." Molly stated quickly, "…he probably, well, you know…_forgot about me_, by now, don't you think?"

"I don't know." Lestrade replied, solemnly.

"…and_ I_ don't know, either." Molly declared, "I don't know _anything _about Moriarty other than what I've heard from you, and the news and I don't know if he shot that art thief or not…can't you ask _Sherlock _about this? I'm sure _he'd _be able to figure out who did it…"

"Yeah, he probably would." Lestrade agreed, "But after he solved this Ricoletti thing Interpol wanted his help with another case, some mobster or something…so he's unavailable right now and I need to find any lead I can."

"Well I'm _sorry_." Molly apologized, "I don't know anything!"

She knew she was sounding _way more_ annoyed than she _should_ and that probably wasn't going to _help_ her…but she _just couldn't help it. _

"Okay, okay!" Lestrade conceded, raising two palms towards her to try to calm her, "I was just asking!"

"…oh." Molly said more evenly and quietly, "…I'm sorry…I just—I have to-"

Molly was interrupted by a loud crash booming inside her apartment.

Immediately they both looked towards the closed door.

"_What_ was _that?_" Lestrade inquired.

"I don't know…" Molly answered, turning back to him and shaking her head.

"Lemme go in there and check…" Lestrade offered, starting towards the door, "It could be a burglar…"

"No, no! It's fine, it's fine!" Molly refused, blocking his way with waving hands, "That _won't_ be necessary! I'm sure my cat just knocked something over or something…"

"…Are you _sure?_" Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow.

_Didn't she just say she was 'sure'? _

"I'm sure, I'm sure." Molly affirmed, nodding and smiling like a polite, normal person, "It's fine, it's fine."

"Okay, then." Lestrade replied, "Okay. Right….I'll just be going now. Call me if you hear anything, okay?"

"I will." Molly promised and lied, with a final nod and smile.

Lestrade returned the gestures and walked away down the hallway.

Once he was safely through the doors to the stairs, Molly went back inside her flat.

She walked back over to the living room, wondering just _what _had made that loud noise.

It was the empty vase.

The one that used to sit on the kitchen counter and used to hold the flowers.

Molly had put it, still empty, on the ledge by the window.

Now it was on the floor, all shards caught in the carpet.

And it was_ meant_ to be…

…it was meant to _fall_, and _crash_ and _break_ if someone were to open the window from the outside and climb into her home.

Molly grabbed a trashbag from the kitchen, went over to the window, closed it and then began to pick up the pieces of the shattered vase and put them inside.

"Shame 'bout that." Jim commented from where he sat on her couch, stretching his neck so that he could glance over at her, "you won't be able to put it back together again…"

Molly sighed, closing her eyes and pausing in her clean up.

It's not like she hadn't been expecting this.

She _knew_ that he would be back.

And now, here he _was._

"You never can…" Molly stated, placing the last shard into the bag and then standing, "…so maybe you shouldn't have _broken_ _it_."

If Jim wanted to play _'metaphors'_ (that's what they were called, right?) then Molly would _play along. _

(_Yes._ Because 'playing' with him worked _so well_ the last time.)

"It's not _my fault_, really." Jim shrugged, "_you're_ the one who put it there…_for me to break_."

Molly dumped the trashbag into the trash bin under the counter and then stepped back into the living room.

Jim was in the middle of her sofa, he patted the cushion that wasn't taken up by the cat he was petting with his other hand, an invitation for her to sit down (as if it was _his _couch).

"You _could_ have been more _careful_." Molly said and sat down at the very edge, on the arm rest, her feet (in fuzzy socks) on the seat.

Jim snorted.

"Why bother?" he chuckled, "It's just a stupid vase!"

Molly almost rolled her eyes.

Instead she turned to the television screen.

The video of Jim telling those creepy fairytales was no longer paused. It was playing on mute.

"Yeah, I was meaning to ask you…" Jim continued, "Just _who_ is that handsome man you're watching on the telly there?"

"_Why_ did you send this to me?" Molly asked, looking back at him, "_What _is it supposed to _mean?_"

"They're just stories, Molly…" Jim answered, "they're not 'supposed to mean' _anything. _Stories don't always have to have a _moral_ or have some kind of _deeper meaning_…sometimes stories are just stories."

Molly shook her head, and smiled defeatedly at her lap.

"_Why_, then?" she breathed, glancing back up at him quickly before looking back down.

He was watching the television, not her.

"_I'm auditioning for a show_," he explained, "_these_ are my audition tapes…I wanted to see which one _you_ thought was the best so I know which one to send in..."

"You've_ got_ to be joking!" Molly exclaimed, unable to hold in her surprised, disbelieving, _nervous_ laugh.

"I'm not, I'm not, _I swear!_" Jim responded, defensively,"…I'm an _actor_, now, with my own talent agent and everything. Finally got a _real _job. It's '_legit'_."

Molly looked up just in time to see him stretch on hand out towards her, pushing one of her knees just hard enough so that she lost her balance and tipped backwards.

But just as she began to fall, his hand caught hers and pulled her whole body back onto the sofa, towards him.

She landed in his lap.

Molly decided that she _should_ at least make _an effort _at sitting back up—even though she knew Jim would just hold her down.

And so she _did_, and he _did_ and then that was all taken care of.

Now she was curled up on the couch, head in his lap with him stroking her hair now instead of Toby's fur.

It was actually really ridiculous.

_Especially_ since Toby had hopped up and onto Molly's side, making himself comfortable there and returning to sleep, acting as another 'hand' keeping her from escaping Jim.

Must have been _fate. _

Molly could only see the television and so instead of seeing the present Jim, she saw the Jim telling stories on the screen silently.

It was _worse_, like this, than it had been when the sound was on.

All Molly had to focus on now was Jim's intense (insane) facial expressions.

His grinning and then grimacing muted mouth, making shapes that seemed like they should have been impossible and baring teeth that, although perfectly aligned and square, still seemed _sharp. _

And then his _eyes_, staring and glaring as if they were _burning_, hot as the sun.

Molly finally just closed hers.

_Maybe_ she could forget where she was, who she was (who _he_ was), and just let the anonymous hand (attached to someone she could not see) stroking her hair lull her to sleep.

_Maybe_ she could forget that (_his_) face.

…_Or maybe not. _

Behind her eyelids, Molly _still_ saw Jim, just like how he was in all the dreams she insisted on forgetting as soon as she woke up from them.

And it was _worse_, like this, than it had been when her eyes were open.

It was worse because these were _memories._

Memories where Jim looked sweet and kind and harmless…which was _even scarier_ because she knew what he was capable of and the fact that he was capable of such a _convincing lie_ was so much more _frightening_ than when he took off his _mask._

"Why did you come back?" Molly questioned, "…I thought you had…I thought you had gotten _bored _of me."

"I didn't get _'bored'_ of you, Molly." She heard him scoff, "…_you_ broke the rules of the game. So_ I_ had to stop playing."

"…oh…" Molly replied, not really understanding what meant but being so used to that that she didn't ask any follow-up questions.

"But why did I come back?" Jim continued, "I came back because I need your _help._"

"The videos are all too creepy…" Molly stated, "You can't show these to anyone. They won't hire you as an actor if they think you're some kind of a _psychopath_."

"I'll keep that in mind." Jim hummed, his hand left her hair and moved back to Toby…and then the hip (_Molly's_ hip) he sat on.

Molly decided that she _should_ make _another effort _at sitting up and so she _did._

_This time_ Jim didn't stop her and so his hand and Toby were both displaced, Toby deciding that he was done with the couch and with the humans (at least for the moment) and stalking off.

Molly hadn't expected this and she didn't know whether to be relieved or _disappointed._

At least she was able to look at Jim now.

"Why are you _really_ doing this?" she asked, "Making these videos?...it's got something to do with _Sherlock_, doesn't it?"

"…_May-be_…" Jim sang childishly.

"…_Please, Jim_…" Molly said, afraid to try this again but more afraid _not_ to, "Just _don't._ Just don't go after Sherlock again. There's no point. You just got out of jail or wherever Sherlock's brother was keeping you and you know they're still probably watching you and I don't know what's going on with you and _your_ brother, he 'disowned' you, or _whatever_…but I doubt that, if you start up trouble, he's _going to be very happy…and so you'll probably end up prison…or worse…and I_ know that's what's you said you wanted. You said you wanted to die…but don't you think…don't you think that maybe, _maybe_ there might be another way you can…you know, be _free_, be _happy_…?"

It was desperate, disconnected plea.

And Jim did just what Molly had expected him to.

Laugh.

At her.

Like he always did.

(Boring?)

"Oh, darling, your _concern is_ _touching_…" he said, "…but it's just _that_, 'going after Sherlock', that I need your help with."

"_What?"_ Molly replied, taken aback.

She did _not_ expect that.

"You heard me." Jim stated, "I need your help getting Sherlock. _Defeating _Sherlock…after your _stunning performance_ that little 'game' we played, I decided that you could be of _some_ use to me, in my _plans_."

He was playing the stereotypical villain now, his accent becoming that pompous drawl that all the British 'bad guys' had in American kids movies (like Scar from 'The Lion King').

Why _wasn't _Jim an actor?

He could have made a decent living like that.

He didn't _need _to be a 'consulting criminal', he didn't _need_ to kill people…

"I'm _not _helping you with that!" Molly exclaimed.

"Of _course._" Jim groaned, rolling his eyes, "…you're still too _'in love'_ with _Sherlock_ to—"

"It's not about Sherlock!" Molly shouted, standing up and causing Jim to flinch at her volume, "…it's about _right and wrong_, for god's sake!"

"'For god's sake' is _right._" Jim snorted, "Really, Molly? 'right and wrong'? Like that _actually _exists? Like it actually _matters_…"

"It _does _matter!" Molly declared.

"_Oh, yeah right._" Jim snapped, again rolling his eyes, "Don't act all 'high and mighty' like you have some kind of 'moral high-ground' here, you're no better than I am!"

"I never killed anyone!" Molly reminded.

"Yeah, but _I did_." Jim reminded, "And you _know_ I did. But I don't remember you reporting it to the police…and it sure didn't stop you from fucking me, now did it, Molly?"

"…no…but, well the first time I…_slept_ with you…I was…well, I was_ drunk_!" Molly defended.

Jim shook his head, laughing and leaning back into the sofa.

"And all the other times?" he inquired.

"Well I already did once and I couldn't take it back so I just had no choice…" Molly trailed off, knowing that her argument was unraveling and that she really had no excuses.

"Yeah and_ I_ already killed somebody once and I couldn't take_ that_ back so I just _kept right on killing_!" Jim agreed sarcastically, mimicking Molly's voice, facial expressions, and manner of speech, _"It's not my fault, I just had no choice!" _

Molly held her head in her hands.

"That's not what I…" she attempted but then promptly gave up.

She knew she had already _lost._

"You know I really do wonder what it's like in your heads, _you normal people_…" Jim sneered, "With your distorted, _sentimental_ 'logic'…and all your silly, pointless concepts like _'right and wrong', 'good and bad'_…and all those _emotions,_ those stupid_, stupid_ emotions that lead you all like _rats_, blind in a maze…"

Molly kept her shield of fingers up, not wanting to see the look on Jim's face as he proved his superior, _monstrous_ inhumanity, _his godhood_, in a way was just too eerily similar to Sherlock.

_She said nothing_.

There was nothing she _could_ say.

She had _lost_, once again, _she had lost._

_Until…._

"But, alas," Jim sighed exaggeratedly, "I am only an _actor._ I'll never know what it is to be such a _pitiful excuse for an existence_…I'll only be able to _pretend._"

Molly removed her hands from her face, stared at Jim and smiled.

His haughty expression dissolved and he raised an eyebrow.

"You—you _actually think_ you're the _only one_ who _pretends?_" She laughed, laughed that surprised, disbelieving, _nervous _laugh, "…_everybody does!_ We all pretend! _All the time!_ We _all _ask people how their day was when we don't really _care._ We _all_ smile and say we're 'fine' when we're _not_…we _all _lie, Jim, we _all _pretend!...it's _so_…so _normal…_"

Jim blinked.

But other than that he had no visible reaction to what Molly had thought would have at least _unnerved _him.

Guess she wasn't as good an _actress_ as she had thought she was.

…_Maybe_ it was because she was telling the _truth._

Jim stood up and now they both stood, just looking at each other, for a few long, _awkward_, moments.

Finally, Jim spoke.

"What would you do, Molly…" he started, "…if it was _all_ pretend? If it was _all _just lies?"

"…if what was?" Molly asked, afraid of what the answer would be.

"If Sherlock was." Jim answered, "If_ I_ was."

"…what do you mean?"

"I mean…what if it was all lies, _all pretend_, me and Sherlock? What if we were never any different from everybody else and we had just made it all up? Made up solving crimes, committing crimes, being geniuses, _being enemies...? _What if none of that was _real _and Sherlock and I were both just really good actors? ...what would you _do_, Molly, _what would you do?"_

Jim stared at Molly seriously as if his words were more than a hypothetical.

"…what? There's _no way_…" Molly responded, furrowing her brow, "There's no way…that would_ never_—that _could_ never be true…"

"But what if it _was?"_ Jim insisted, grabbing Molly by the shoulders, his eyes boring into hers, "…_what. would. you. do?_

"I…_I don't know_…" Molly admitted, "I don't think there'd even be anything _for_ me to do…"

"Would you still love him?" Jim asked, "Sherlock?"

"I don't _love_—" Molly protested but was cut off.

"_Would you?"_ Jim demanded, urgently, shaking her.

"I'd still be _friends _with him, if _that's_ what you're asking." Molly stated, "…I wouldn't just…_abandon_ him just because he wasn't a _genius._"

"You _wouldn't?_" Jim said, releasing her, and falling back into the sofa behind him, "…_That's_ surprising."

"Why is it 'surprising'?" Molly inquired, offendedly, folding her arms.

"…because Sherlock being a genius is the whole reason you wanted him in the first place." Jim explained, crossing one leg over the other, "It's the whole reason put up with all his _bullshit._ Because he's a _genius._ You wouldn't _do that_ for just _any guy_. No. Even _you're_ not _that much_ of a _pushover._ You wouldn't do that for just_ anyone_. Only for _Sherlock…_.and so if Sherlock wasn't a _genius,_ if Sherlock wasn't _Sherlock_ and he was just a _normal guy_, just a regular old _asshole_….would you _really_ 'still be friends with him', as you put it…or would you even bother wasting your time with him?"

"Well, I mean…I…" Molly stammered.

"_Exactly._" Jim smirked.

"So, what?" Molly retorted, "It's not like I'd hate him or anything if he wasn't a genius…and it's not like he's _not _so it's not like any of that even _matters_…"

"But it _does_, it _does_ matter." Jim insisted, "There are two reasons people put up with other people."

Again, he pat the cushion next to him inviting Molly to sit and she _did_, turning in her seat to face him.

"'_put up with'?" _She requested clarification.

"…'put up with', 'like', 'love'… _whatever you wanna call it_…" Jim conceded, shrugging, "But there are two reasons people _want _other people. Two reasons _a person_ wants another _person…_And those reasons are either that they want them _even though_ they are what they are…or that they want them _because_ of what they are."

"…okay…"

"Do you know _which _one of those reasons is better, Molly?"

"The second one…_obviously._ You can't _change _people and so it's better just to love someone for what they are, to love someone _because _of what they are."

"Wrong."

"_Wrong?_ What do you mean 'wrong'? _How_ am I wrong—"

"Because you're _stupid_. Because you didn't _think _about it. This is a _sentimental_ matter, Molly, and for all your sentimentality—_for once_—you didn't _think with your emotions…"_

"What do you mean?"

"What I meant is there's emotion and then there's logic. And logic always needs a reason—"

"But you said there were 'two reasons' a person would want another person."

"I _did._ And that's just semantics. Different use of the word 'reason'. But I'll make it easier for you to understand…What I _really should have said_ is that there are two _ways_ a person can want another person. And those ways are _becaus_e someone is what they are and _even though_ someone is what they are."

"But why is 'even though' better? Shouldn't it be 'because'?"

"No, see that's where the _stupid_ comes in. _'Because'_ is a reason. _'Because'_ is logic….this is _emotion. _And with_ emotion_ there _is no reason_, at least not a _logical_ one…when you want somebody _because_ they are who they are, it's not actually _that person_ that you want. _It's the idea that that person represents_. That's the _reason_ you want them, _that idea_, that's the _logic_…and so it can't be emotion. It can't be_ real_…but when you want somebody _even though_ they are what they are, and you might even _hate_ what they are, _that's_ the emotion. That's when it's _real._ Because you have no reason, _no logical reason_, for even wanting them at all. _You just do._ It doesn't make any sense, there's no explanation for it, but you _do…You just do._ And _that's_ why it's _better_."

When Jim finished speaking, he took a breath and then gazed at Molly awaiting her response.

(And there was a _choice_ here, Molly realized, she wasn't _stupid._ A choice between the two ways people 'wanted' other people. A choice between the two ways _she_ 'wanted' two certain 'other people'. A choice between good and bad, right and wrong…_Molly didn't want to make it. _It was a lose-lose no matter what she chose. She just couldn't win.)

"…why are you telling me this?" Molly asked after a while, unable to think of anything else to say.

"No reason." Jim answered, shrugging nonchalantly, his face as confused as Molly's and a millions times as unreadable.

And then he got up to leave.

Molly, still seated, watched him walk (slowly) away, his back turned to her as he approached the door.

_Maybe_ he wanted her to call out to him, or even run after him and pull him back.

But she _didn't. _

And so soon, after so long, he was out the door and the door was closed.

Molly _just sat there_, just sat there and _thought._

She thought about what Jim had told her, theorizing on what it was supposed to be a metaphor (that's what they were called, right?) for.

It was obvious, of course.

"_No reason." _

No reason.

No logic.

Just emotion.

…but then, then Molly remembered what Jim had sad before.

"_They're not supposed to mean anything. Sometimes, stories are just stories…" _

No meaning.

No logic.

No reason.

"_No reason."_

* * *

><p>Once upon a time there was a Little Mouse.<p>

The Little Mouse lived in a little hole in the wall of little house.

Also, in that little house, lived a Cat.

The Cat sat by that wall with the little hole wherein The Little Mouse lived.

He sat there and he slept there.

And The Little Mouse saw the _danger _right in front of her; The Little Mouse was _not _naïve.

But one day, The Little Mouse was _hungry._

_So hungry. _

She had to leave her little hole in the wall of the little house in order to find food.

And so The Little Mouse waited until she saw that The Cat was asleep.

When he finally was she ventured out of the little hole, crept silently past The Cat, dashed into the kitchen, ate, and then crept silently past The Cat again back into her home.

And since that worked so well, The Little Mouse did this every time she got _hungry._

But one day, The Little Mouse was _hungry, so hungry_, and no matter how long she waited The Cat would _not _fall asleep.

Finally, after starving and waiting for so long, The Little Mouse decided that she would die either way and so emerged from her little hole in the wall of the little house.

The Cat saw her.

But The Cat did nothing.

He just watched The Little Mouse as she tread past him on her way to the kitchen where she ate and then he just watched her as she returned home, past him yet again.

But even though this worked so well, The Little Mouse did not do this every time she got _hungry._

And The Little Mouse saw the _danger _right in front of her; The Little Mouse was _not _naïve.

She was not _stupid._

But one day, she was _hungry_ again.

And so again, she had to risk her life and run past The Cat in order to feed herself.

And The Little Mouse ran back and forth, back and forth in front of The Cat time after time for years, every time she got _hungry._

And one day, she finally realized that The Cat was _not really_ a danger to her at all.

Although he was bigger than her and had sharper claws and teeth than her, The Cat was _not hungry._

He was well fed by his masters who own the little house where The Little Mouse lived in the little hole in the wall.

The Cat had _no reason_ to hurt The Little Mouse.

And so, after so many times that he did not harm her when given the chance, she was no longer _afraid _of him.

In fact, they even became _friends._

And from that day on, The Little Mouse and The Cat in the little house lived happily ever after.

* * *

><p><strong>Well Mountford was the talent agency's name according to some wikipedia like website, too lazy to post link now...<strong>

**And the spider and fly poem, yeah the poet's name was like Mary Howitt or something which was where that name came from in Jim's thoughts although in the universe of this story she didnt exist just like Arthur Conan Doyle didn't exist because its helpful to my plot.**

**yeah.**

**its 4:00 AM where I am so this is like...ugh...**

**...sorry if there are mistakes...**

**...but I can't just keep ya'll waiting forever...**

**Please review. **

**:) **


	28. Monsters

**Hi there everybody!**

** Been busy with a pysch project so that's why I haven't been updating as quickly as I did during Spring Break when I had all day to write.**

**I actually stayed home from school today to write this. **

**That's how much I love you all. **

**And of course, now my mommy's found out about this story and actually found it too!**

**...So she'll probably be reading this eventually. (I say eventually because she hasn't yet seen the second season and so I told her to wait, at least, to read this). **

***shoots self***

**I bet she'll be sooooo proud of her darling, innocent, virgin daughter now. **

***shoots self again***

**Hope ya'll like it. **

* * *

><p>Arthur reached the Tower of London to see Jim Moriarty being escorted out in handcuffs by police and put into the back of a police car.<p>

_…__what the hell…?_

This was_ not_part of the plan.

Mr. Moriarty had told Arthur to be there at this time and Arthur had been the one to bribe the guards so that they 'just happened' to leave their post at just the right moment…

…the moment that that Mr. Moriarty would steal (no _not_ steal, _retrieve_…on behalf of their rightful owner) the Crown Jewels, which he would then give to Arthur who would be waiting for him outside.

_That was the plan!_

So why was Mr. Moriarty being _arrested?_!

Arthur was _supposed_ to be getting his birthright as the long lost but _definitely _legitimate heir to the throne!

"Excuse me, sir..."

Arthur turned to see a uniformed police officer approach him.

"Yeah?" he said.

"You can't be here." the officer declared, "We cleared the area twenty minutes ago."

"Fine whatever…." Arthur grumbled, "I was just leaving anyway."

He started to go.

"_No you're not_." the police man countered, "You're going to need to come with me…"

"What?" Arthur cried, "Why?"

"Because…" The officer began, "You're under arrest for aiding the criminal in his attempted theft of the crown jewels! Moriarty said you were his accomplice!"

He then grabbed Arthur by the wrists, forcing him to put his hands behind his back.

Arthur struggled to get free but was unable, because the police man was too strong.

"_Damn it!" _Arthur cursed and he, too, was being led away from the Tower of London in handcuffs.

_Jim Moriarty had set him up!_

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, in Pentonville Prison...<p>

Conan decided that it was the _perfect_time to stop out of the security office for a cup of coffee.

And _when_ he had stepped out for a cup of coffee, all the electronically locked doors of the prison cells 'just happened' to open.

And as soon as the flood gates were opened, the river of prisoners came rushing out.

_Okay._

Everything was going according to plan.

Conan was in the break room, chomping on a donut as he waited for the coffee-maker to start steaming, when he heard the shouts and pounding feet of the felons.

Conan went over to the door and locked himself safely inside, away from all the dangerous criminals.

...except for the lock on thatdoor, just like all the rest of the keypad-access doors in the prison, _wasn't working. __  
><em>  
><em>Shit.<em>

Conan could hear someone jiggling the handle and soon the door flew open.

Several prisoners burst into the break room.

"Take all the food you want!" Conan shouted, jumping back away from them, "Just don't hurt me!"

"You have donuts in here?" one of the prisoners exclaimed, "It's been twenty-eight years since I've had a donut!"

He stomped up to Conan and snatched the half eaten donut of his hand, then proceeding to eat and swallow it in one bite.

…_ew…_

Some other prisoners from the hall way must have heard the word 'donut' because soon the break room was being subjected to a stampede of men in orange jumpsuits.

_And so was Conan._

"Hey, hey stop, stop!" Conan called as he was being pushed to ground by the felons on their mad rush to the box of donuts sitting on the counter next to the coffee-maker.

_What was going on here?_

Mr. Moriarty had told Conan that he was going to let _one_ (just ONE) prisoner out of his cell, and all the rest were just a diversion so that that one could escape.

Mr. Moriarty had told Conan that he would be _safe._

This was _not_ the plan.

"…wait a minute…!" Conan said, realizing what had happened, "_That motherf_—"

His words were cut off by the escapees knocking him backwards to the floor.

Conan's last thought as he was being trampled was that…

_Jim Moriarty had set him up!_

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, at the Bank of England…<p>

Doyle waited until precisely the right moment to enter.

Just as he walked through the glass doors, the bank's heavily armored vaults 'just happened' to open wide, as if welcoming him in.

Doyle pulled out his gun.

He and his crew marched into the bank, weapons drawn.

"Everybody down!" Doyle shouted, firing a few warning rounds into the ceiling.

The bank employees quickly obliged.

The crew stepped over and around them, past the front desks, towards their target.

_Everything was going according to plan._

Then they stepped into the vault and began to fill their duffle bags with money.

It was all perfect...  
><em><br>__...except...__  
><em>  
>…suddenly the vault doors re-shut themselves, trapping Doyle and his crew inside.<p>

This was _not _part of the plan.

"_Son of a bitch!" _Doyle growled.

Now he and his crew wouldn't get the money, they probably all go to jail, and his boss was _definitely_going to kill him. All because…

_Jim Moriarty had set him up!_

* * *

><p>By the time the police car had pulled up in front of Scotland Yard, there was already a cloud of flies buzzing around the smell of fresh meat.<p>

_Yes. _

The media was there.

"…_great_…" Lestrade groaned.

"Great!"

Lestrade and Donovan turned around to glare at Moriarty who was obviously very pleased to see the crowd of reporters, television and newspaper, and cameramen, photo and video.

He was grinning at them out the window…or maybe he was just grinning at his own reflection in the glass (who knows? the guy's crazy!).

They glanced out the window as well, briefly and then at each other, nodding.

Simultaneously, Lestrade and Donovan stepped out of the car and slammed the doors behind them.

"I'll hold them off so you can get him inside." Donovan told Lestrade.

"You've got the _easy_ job." Lestrade replied, sighing.

It was a joke.

But it was also serious.

(Normally, the media was more difficult to handle than an arrestee, but not in _this case_.)

"We can _trade_, if you want…" Donovan offered, her facial expression something passable for an unenthusiastic smile.

"No, it's alright." Lestrade refused, shaking his head, "I've got it."

He had already decided not to allow Moriarty near any females. He'd probably try to grope them or something.

Donovan nodded and then started towards the mob of reporters.

"Okay, that's it, everybody, _back up!"_ she ordered, flashing her badge, "Make room! This official police business, _you need to mind your own!_…and I don't want to see _any _of you inside…or I'll make sure you don't come out!"

_Threats as always. _

Ah, that was his Sally.

True, she was _mean_…but Sergeant Donovan was _damn useful._

The buzzing flies backed away as if Donovan were swatting at them with a rolled newspaper, rather than just shooting them with her verbal bullets.

Lestrade opened the back door of the police car.

"Thanks, Jeeves." Moriarty smirked as he exited the car.

Lestrade did _not_ roll his eyes.

Instead, he closed the door and then pushed Moriarty towards the building, past the media personnel.

Of course, the usual questions were shouted, microphones and pens aimed like arrows in Lestrade and Moriarty's direction, and the usual flash photography occurred.

Moriarty stopped, turned to 'greet his public' and flash a smile.

"Keep it moving." Lestrade warned, pushing him sharply forwards.

"Back up, back up!" Donovan kept saying, arms even outstretched to physically block the more _intrepid_ of the reporters that stepped out of line.

The roar of the crowd was steady and unbearable.

(Just as loud as those rock concerts Lestrade used to go to before he had kids…or maybe it had just been awhile.)

But Lestrade knew it was only going to get _worse._

Donovan opened the door to Scotland Yard and Lestrade shoved Moriarty inside.

* * *

><p>Only the most high-profile, extreme criminals that got arraigned the day they were arrested.<p>

It was a short, private affair.

(Closed to the public (the media) but that didn't stop them from standing right outside the courthouse.)

Jim Moriarty was escorted into the courtroom, told the exhaustive list of crimes he was being charged with, and then escorted back to his jail cell.

No bail was set.

The cell was small, dark and_ isolated_, with only a bench to sit on.

Lestrade or some other _pig_ must have decided that Jim should be kept separate from the _common criminals _(the kind of 'common criminals' that were probably stampeding over Conan's unconscious body only an hour ago. Too funny.), which Jim really didn't mind except for the fact that he just got so lonely…

…_and bored_…

It would be at least a week before he'd go to trial and finally be able to see who would undoubtedly be the star witness for his prosecution, _Sherlock Holmes._

And Jim would be the ticking time bomb inside the box until then, just waiting to _explode._

But how would he keep himself occupied for an entire week?

He didn't have any people to mess with and they didn't even give him a crossword puzzle to do or anything!

…_what to do, what to do…_

_Bored, bored, bored, BORED! _

Wait a minute.

Didn't Jim get a lawyer or something?

One of those 'overworked, underpaid' public _servants?_

Didn't he have _rights!_

"Don't I get a phone call?" Jim had yelled as he was being _gently escorted _into the cell, "I want a lawyer!"

But Lestrade had said nothing.

The heavy metal door thudding was the only response.

_How rude!_

Jim was _offended._

(And that must have been how Doyle had felt, too, when he and his crew became the Bank of England's newest deposit into the vault. Jim wished he could have been there to see it.)

Offended and _bored. _

His mobile phone had been confiscated as 'evidence' so he couldn't use that to keep himself entertained.

Jim wondered if the police tech guys would be 'entertained' trying to figure the complicated this (it wasn't just a _smartphone_…it was a smart-_ass_-phone. Ha, ha, ha.) and if they'd find the pictures.

After seeing his handsome head (in a crown) in the convenient mirror that was inside the display case with the Crown Jewels, Jim just_ had_ to snap a picture.

Then he had sent it to all his contacts.

(Including Arthur who might not have actually seen it because he, too, had probably been arrested and so had his phone confiscated. Pity.)

* * *

><p>Molly's phone buzzed.<p>

She stopped work on the corpse, setting down the scalpel on the metal table so that she could reach into her labcoat pocket and pull it out.

_New picture message. _

Molly stared into the image of Jim Moriarty…

…and _what_ was he _wearing _…a _cape?..._ and some kind of _crown_…

…_huh?_

And he was posing in front of…what _was_ that, _broken glass?_

Hold on.

…_were those_…

_Were those the Crown Jewels!_

Jim was in the _Tower of London_ and he was wearing the _Crown Jewels_.

…_what the hell?_

* * *

><p>Jim sat down on the cold bench and was just starting to doze off when he heard the cell door click open.<p>

He kept his eyes closed, his elbow digging into his knee, propping up his head, resting on his palm.

He listened to the footsteps.

Who would it be?

…hmm…

Not expensive shoes so nobody from the courthouse…and not the standard shoes a guard or a police officer would wear…

…_combat boots. _

Jim grinned.

"Mr. Sebastian Moran." He said, "…come to bust me outta here?...Or just keep me _company_?"

Jim heard the door shut.

He opened his eyes and sat up straight, back against the concrete wall.

Despite the dim light he could see Moran standing before him, expressionless as always.

Jim had been too sleepy to notice when he had last seen him that his auburn hair had grown out considerably from the first and second time they had met.

"You just allowed yourself to be arrested." Moran stated, "Your picture and your _name_ are all over the news."

"…So?" Jim shrugged.

"_So_ you and my employer had a _deal_." Moran reminded.

"Why doesn't your _'employer'_ come talk to me himself, then?" Jim snapped.

"Don't you understand?" Moran growled, "You're never going to _see_ him again. _That_ was the deal."

He grabbed Jim by the collar and shoving him against the wall.

Jim's eyes and mouth widened.

"_Please_, Mr. Moran, sir, _don't hurt me!"_ he begged-and then he was unable to contain his snickering any longer.

Moran released Jim from his grasp and Jim dropped down, back onto the bench.

"I can hurt you." Moran declared, "I have orders to kill you."

"Kill me, then!" Jim exclaimed, "What are you waiting for?"

"You _want_ to die?" Moran asked, with just the slightest raise of an eyebrow.

"Hey, why not?" Jim smiled, "You only live once. Gotta try everything."

And Moran did _not_ roll his eyes.

"My employer ordered me to kill you." he said, "…But I'm not going to. I'm going to leave you're here and let the law take care of you."

"Oooh, the toy soldier disobeys his orders!" Jim chuckled, "So you're not just a remote controlled drone, after all! So you've actually got a _mind_ in there…_somewhere_…"

Jim leaned forward and poked Moran on the forehead.

Moran caught Jim's hand, crushing it inside his fist with a practiced amount of pressure that caused serious pain and bruising but no broken bones.

Jim looked up into Moran's eyes, but they were just as _dead _as his blank face.

Jim tried amusement on his own, and then fear and even agony…but none could force a reaction from Moran.

"…you know _what_, Sebby?" Jim finally hissed, "_Free will_ doesn't _suit_ you. _Just do your job." _

And then…

…for the first time…

…a _smile._

Moran, just ever-so slightly, _smiled _and let go on Jim's hand.

Jim shook and then rubbed his hand to restore it back to its normal shape from the compressed and contorted one Moran had molded it into.

"I _am_." Moran stated, "My _job_ is to do what my employer _wants_…and although he may have _ordered _me to kill you…I don't believe that my employer _wants you dead._"

Jim snorted, eyeing Moran through the darkness.

So Moran was both willing to go against James's orders _and_ claimed to know what James _really_ wanted—even when he explicitly stated that he wanted the opposite.

_Interesting. _

And, of course, that _'gesture'_ was even more _'kind' _(interesting) since Jim knew that Moran probably wanted _very badly_ to kill him, now had the orders and opportunity (and _excuse_) to, and so the only reason that he _wasn't_ killing Jim right as they spoke was because he knew that James wouldn't be…_happy_.

_Interesting. _

"You're quite the _intuitive_ one, aren't you?" Jim chuckled, standing up, "…Tell me, what _else_ does your 'employer' _want_…and how do you two go about _doing _that?"

Moran ignored the comment as if he hadn't even heard it.

"This is what I'm going to do." He stated, "I'm going to leave you here. _Alive._ And _this_ is what _you're_ going to do. _You're _going to _keep your_ _mouth shut_….You're _not_ going to explain your crimes, or what you do, or mention any _names_… even if they put you on the stand. And you're _not _going to _lie_ either. Your just going to _keep your mouth shut_…and then you're going to go to prison for the rest of your life where my employer will never hear from you again. _Got it?"_

"Yes _sir_!" Jim saluted.

And Moran did _not_ roll his eyes.

"Good." He said, "Then this conversation is over."

Moran turned and started to leave.

"I _do _have a plan, you know…" Jim muttered to his back, "…but _he_ has no _faith _in me…he doesn't _trust_ me…but _he'll see_…he'll see I've done _exactly_ what he asked me to…_he'll see, he'll see_…"

The door clanged shut behind Moran.

* * *

><p>"The <em>vultures<em> are already circling…" some hotshot lawyer from some expensive firm had said, "they'll tear you apart. You need a_ lion_, you need a defender to protect you from public that'll _eat you alive_. I'm willing to take your case. _Pro-bono._ I'll make sure you don't get convicted, and more importantly, I'll make sure no harm comes to your _name_…"

"No thank you, sir." Jim had said, "I don't _need_ a defense."

The guy was obviously only in it for the publicity, anyway. Jim had heard of him, his firm took the cases of all the high-profile criminals.

He had probably been sent over by a client they had in common.

And so out the prominent attorney had gone and in the public defender had come.

"Were you _abused _as a child?" Jim's court appointed lawyer had asked, "Did something happen to you that could be used to, you know, explain why you grew up to do all these _things_?"

"Nope." Jim had grinned, shaking his head.

"How about _insanity_, then…" the lawyer had suggested.

"I've actually been declared legally sane by a licensed evaluator." Jim had stated.

And it was _true._

Playing 'sane' had been _fun_ during his 'vacation' at the mental hospital James had decided to put him in 'time-out' inside…_and very necessary to his release._

The staff there had said they'd 'never seen such swift improvement in a patient before'.

"...then do you have _anything?" _the lawyer had basically _begged_, "anything _at all_ that could be used in your defense?"

"No." Jim had said, "I don't _want_ a defense."

And he _didn't. _

Jim Moriarty had to been 'torn apart' and 'eaten alive'…

…so that Sherlock Holmes would be.

Jim Moriarty had to _die_…

…so that Richard Brooke could be born.

And Richard Brooke had to be born…

…so that Sherlock Holmes could _die._

* * *

><p>The trial lasted four days.<p>

The first day, prosecutors told the story of how James "Jim" Moriarty had attempted to steal the Crown Jewels, break into the Bank of England and break prisoners out of Pentonville prison. And how, two years ago, he had blown up an apartment building, killing a blind, elderly grandmother and twelve other people.

"_A monster!"_ they had declared.

The second day, prosecutors added that Moriarty was also involved in various other crimes including art theft, art forgery, stealing government secrets, contract killing, terrorism and many other illegal activities that came with being the world's only 'consulting criminal'.

And on the third day, Sherlock Holmes came to testify.

His testimony promptly had him held in contempt of court and so he was _gently escorted_ into a holding cell.

Later, Jim Moriarty had to be taken back to his cell too.

Right next to Sherlock Holmes's.

* * *

><p>But an hour before, on the third day, proceedings were only just beginning and Jim Moriarty was being led into the courtroom by a female officer.<p>

(Lestrade had changed his mind about the gender to 'handle' Moriarty ever since, on the first day, he had tried to grope a male guard.)

Molly watched Jim stroll into the room, carefree as ever despite the fact that he could be sentenced to probably hundreds of years in prison, pushed by a female (why _female?_ 'Get your grope-y hands off him'!) court officer and followed by his lawyer, standard government-issued.

He was cleaned up from the last time she had seen him (hair slicked back neatly and face completely shaven) and he was obviously trying (_but not too hard_) not to laugh.

Molly was being _careful_, she had waited until the day she knew Sherlock was coming to court in order to come watch the trial herself.

And then when Lestrade (accompanied by Donovan and Anderson who 'had to see this freak testify' for themselves) had asked her what she was doing there, early enough in the morning to get a good seat, Molly had said:

"_I want to see Jim Moriarty put away for all things he's done. Forever." _

And then Lestrade had let her come inside the courtroom with him (and Donovan and Anderson) and sit in the area usually reserved for those attending in an official capacity or government employees.

Now, Molly was seated in the back row of the wooden benches in the still mostly empty courtroom.

The judge hadn't even arrived yet…

…_and neither had Sherlock. _

But _Jim_ was here.

Instantly (_as if he had some kind of sixth sense that knew that she was here and exactly where she was_) he caught her eye as he came in, smiling.

He tried to wave but his hands were trapped behind his back in handcuffs.

Molly quickly looked away, down at her own hands, folded in her laps.

Lestrade must have seen this because he immediately crossed the room from the corner he was having a serious discussion with a court officer in over to the table where Jim (and his lawyer and the grabby female) stood.

Molly couldn't hear what Lestrade was saying but he was aiming a finger sternly at Jim, who shrugged innocently, and his face looked pretty angry.

Jim said nothing throughout that conversation. He just smiled and nodded until Lestrade walked away.

Molly expected Lestrade to come up to her, after he was done with Jim, and tell her not to worry and that _that criminal_ wouldn't be _bothering _her anymore.

But he didn't.

And soon people were filing into the viewing area upstairs, taking their seats and chatting like an audience waiting for the lights to dim and the show to begin.

The judge and prosecution came into the courtroom next, all wearing white wigs, and took their respective posts.

Jim was talking to the grabby female (what was she? A police officer or a court officer? Either way she should have been acting much more professionally!) who reached into his pants pocket (!) and put something into his mouth (!).

Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson came and sat down in Molly's row, but not too close to her.

Then, _finally_, Sherlock Holmes (accompanied by John Watson ('get your grope-y hands off him'!)) entered.

And the room fell silent.

Sherlock gave his testimony on Jim (which often tangented but always returned), a dramatic, deep-voiced speech which culminated in the line:

"_James Moriarty isn't a man at all. He's a spider. A spider at the center of a web. A criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances." _

Oh, what beautiful poetry.

Molly was sure Jim would appreciate that.

And he _did._

Molly saw Jim nod, slowly, at Sherlock's words, with just the smallest hint of a smile (that only someone who _knew_ him would even _notice_).

And then, _of course_, Sherlock got himself held in contempt of court and put into a holding cell.

* * *

><p>"…<em>Sherrrrrrrlock<em>…I know you can hear me, _Sherlock_, don't pretend that you can't…I'm not _stupid_, Shhhherlock, _neither of us are_, Shhhherlock, let's _talk_, Sher-_lock_…I know you _want _to…it's why you got yourself put into _time-out_."

"…and why did _you?" _

"I misbehaved. It's what I do."

"I asked _why."_

"Why do people do _anything?_ Because they want to. That's why."

"And _why_ do you _'want to'?"_

"…so many questions—"

"So many _deflections._ Are you going to _answer me_, Moriarty, or _not?"_

"…why do you _care_, Sherlock? Why do you care _what I do_…_why_ I do what I do…_why do you care?" _

"It's not because of …_sentiment_… if _that's_ what you're implying. I don't 'care' because I've got a 'bleeding heart' and it _hurts me_, the fact that _you hurt people_ and I can't even_ fathom_ how you're able to do _such things_, such _terrible_ things, to your 'fellow man'…_That's not why I care_—"

"Oh I knew _that_, Sherlock. I know that we're both _heartless monsters._ I'd never try to_ insult_ you otherwise…but why is it? Why is it that you care, Sherlock? Because you_ do_ care…"

"I care because I _want to understand_…I like to _know things_."

"You _do?_ _Really?_"

"I _do_. It's a _hobby _of mine, actually…"

"I never would have _guessed that_, Sherlock. You're always so full of surprises—"

"_Moriarty_."

"Yes, dear?"

"I answered your question. Now you answer_ mine_…that's how this _game is played_, isn't it?"

"Yes it is…_that was your answer_, by the way, since the thing you just said was a question…"

"That doesn't count."

"_Yes it does_…now don't be a spoilsport. _Play by the rules_…"

"_You_ never do."

"But you're not _me_, Sherlock, _are you?"_

"No I'm not…_And that counted as a question._ Now you have to answer _mine."_

"Ah, you got me there. Good one. _Ask away!"_

"_Why_ are you doing this?"

"I told you—"

"No you told me it was because you 'wanted to'. You never told me why you wanted to."

"You never asked."

"Yes I did."

"You didn't just now—"

"Shall I rephrase?"

"You can…if you want…but it won't count….unless you answer another one of my questions."

"Answer mine first."

"Okay. Like I told you before. I'm doing this because I want to. _Happy?" _

"Yes."

"Now my next question is—"

"_No._ you just asked another question when you asked if I was 'happy'. _Don't forget the rules_, Moriarty. Now _I _get to ask _my _question."

"_No, you don't._ You answered that question when you said 'yes'. _Don't forget the rules_, Sherlock…_it's my turn now_."

"…_fine._ Get on with it, then."

"_With pleasure._ As I was _saying_…my next question is…boxers or briefs?"

"_Really?" _

"Up-bup-bup. You don't _get_ to ask a question yet. _First, _you've got to _answer…" _

"…_Ugh_, this is _absurd."_

"Oh, but it's worth it, Sherlock…if you want _me_ to answer _your _question."

"Neither."

"…_Come again?" _

"Neither. That's my answer."

"Oooh! _I like that._ You've really got me all _hot and bothered_. Now tell me, Sherlock, do you just go _completely_ commando…or do you wear lady's underwear—"

"No. You don't _get_ to ask me another question yet. It's _my_ turn now."

"And _what_ is your _question?_...that question didn't _count_, by the way, since it was a question about a question."

"You can't change the rules."

"_No, I can't._ But I _can_ _cheat._ And I_ do_ cheat…thought you knew that already, what with you being a _genius_ and all..."

"I do know that. I just assumed you held more_ respect_ for The Game, I guess I was _wrong_…"

"_Love the player, not the game…" _

"I'm _flattered._"

"Don't be _vain_, Sherlock, how do you know I was talking about _you?" _

"Wait your turn, Moriarty. Let me ask my question."

"Hurry up!"

"…_Carl Powers._ Why did you kill him?... And don't just give me some vague answer like you did the last time. Tell me why, _really why_ you killed him. In detail."

"Alright…it wasn't just because he laughed at me. It was because he didn't want to be my _friend_…and I was _lonely_, _so lonely_…"

"More."

"That's not fair—"

"More. _Tell me more_. Or I'll quit playing."

"_Cheater." _

"I_ do_ do that, _cheat._ Now keep talking."

"…I was angry. And I don't _get angry_ that often—"

"I'm _sure._"

"No, I'm _serious._ I _don't._ I really don't. But that time I _did._ I did get angry. _Carl got me angry…_and I _loved_ it. I'd never felt anything like that before. I got angry and suddenly, the _things I wanted to do to him_…_the ideas_, the brilliant, _beautiful_ ideas…I'd never been so _focused_ before…_so smart_...it _helped _me, you see, being angry, it helped me to _think_. Gave me 'purpose', as they say…"

"Mmhmm…_and?"_

"_And so I killed him._ I killed him because I had to do _something _with all that _angry_…It just _builds and builds_, you know, builds up inside of you…but it can't be like that forever…it's got to come out sometime…like a _climax_ it's got to shoot out all over and—"

"Your answer is deteriorating. I've heard enough. You may ask _your_ question now."

"…_Damn it_, just when I was getting to the good part…alright, fine. My question…_hmm_…have you ever gotten _angry_, Sherlock? I mean _really angry_…angry enough to _kill someone_?"

"I've killed people before—"

"Not very bright, _admitting to murder_ while in custody. _They could be listening…"_

"They are listening, I'm sure. And I'm sure 'they' _appreciate _that I was able to _dispose of_ a sub-sect of terrorist that had become quiet annoying to them, before its destruction, planning various attack such as bombings and plane crashes that I know you're aware, having been _involved_ with them…"

"I was never _charged_...And that's not what I was asking, if you ever killed anyone before. I knew about those terrorists, how you killed them to rescue your beloved _woman_…and how _you_, at the age of thirty-five, finally lost your—"

"To answer the question you asked earlier. _No._ I've never gotten angry enough to kill someone. I don't _do_ things out of _anger._ I don't _get '_angry'. Emotions interfere with judgment, _with the mind_…and I'd _never_ compromise my mind."

"… '_never'?_ Not even with…certain _illegal substances_?"

"It's not your turn to ask a question."

"Don't worry. I'll save that one for later…what's your question now?"

"You said you killed Carl Powers because you were angry. So after you killed him, then _what did you feel?"_

"You saw me…that day in the locker room, at the pool…I was laughing, _I was happy…"_

"_No you weren't._ You were _pretending _to be _happy._ You were _pretending_ to _laugh._ And you're lying now. You have to tell me the _truth._ What did you _really_ feel?"

"Nothing…"

"Nothing?"

"Yes. _Nothing_…but you _knew _that, didn't you?"

"_I did."_

"You knew that because _you feel it too_, all the time, don't you? _Nothing…" _

"Is that your question?"

"It_ can_ be. Are you going to answer it?"

"_No._ Because I just answered _that_ question."

"Well, that doesn't count because you answered my previous question with a question, which I answered. I answered one more question than you did. That puts _me_ 'in the lead'. I have to ask another question to make it even it again….and _you_ have to answer, if you want to be 'in the lead' yourself."

"Fine. Ask."

"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist winning a game…You're too _competitive._ Do you think it comes from having an older brother that's _always_, always no matter how hard you try, how hard you _think_, always, always _better _than you? _Smarter _than you?"

"Mycroft is no one to compete with, he's too busy…and too _lazy_…But that's an interesting psychological insight, even if it _is_ incorrect. I wonder where that came from…_Personal experience_, perhaps?"

"_Perhaps." _

"More."

"No. _My turn_…Don't you ever get _bored?"_

"_Obviously_. But I try at all costs to avoid it."

"No, I mean bored of _what you do_. You know, that 'consulting detective' thing…do you ever get _bored_ of _that?"_

"Only if the cases get boring."

"So _never?_ You never just get bored of detective work all together? Of doing the _same_ thing, with the _same_ people, day after day?"

"It's my turn now. I get to ask the question. How about_ you_, Moriarty, do _you_ ever get _bored?"_

"Of course! But you know that! You of _all people_ know _that." _

"No, I meant it in the same way _you _did. As in: do you ever get bored of what _you_ do? Of, you know, that 'consulting criminal' thing, as you put it? Do you ever get bored of _that?_ Do you ever get bored of committing crimes…?"

"That's two questions."

"They're essentially the same thing, though. Answer either and either answer will be satisfactory."

"_Okay._ Okay, _Sherlock_, okay _I'll answer…._I _do_ get bored. I _do get bored_ of that 'consulting criminal' thing, as you put it. _In fact_, I'm so bored of it already that I'm seriously considering _retiring_…"

"And doing what? Settling down? In a little house in the country? Or maybe you're more the travel the world on a cruise ship kind of guy…"

"That's three more questions. _You're cheating._ And you're talking like I'm some kind of _old man_…"

"You did say 'retiring', didn't you? Isn't that what retirees _do?_"

"I shouldn't have said 'retiring', then. I should have said that I'm seriously considering a change of careers…"

"To what, exactly?"

"Another question. That makes _four _you've asked without giving _me_ any answers. I call a 'foul'. It's time to even the odds…"

"Ask me question, then."

"Alright…_do you_ or do you_ not_ wear _ladies underwear?"_

* * *

><p>As soon as the trial recessed, Molly stood up.<p>

She watched Jim being led away by the female dog— _court officer _and followed by the court appointed attorney that had been mute the entire time (why wasn't he _defending_ Jim?..._not that Jim deserved a defense, or anything_. It's just that that was his _job_, wasn't it?).

Lestrade, too, stood up (along with Donovan and Anderson, who had been muttering snide comments the whole time and snickering to themselves when Sherlock had been kicked out) and turned to Molly.

"Would you like a ride?" he asked.

"Huh?" Molly replied, turning to Lestrade.

She had been too _distracted _by the way Jim was whispering something to the guard escorting him out.

"Would you like a ride?" Lestrade repeated, "To work, I mean. Back to the hospital?"

"Oh, no." Molly smiled politely, shaking her head "It's fine. I can take the tube. Thanks for offering, though."

"Are you _sure?"_ Lestrade asked.

_Not again! _

But before Molly could tell him that _'yes'_ (for the last time!) she was _'sure' _she and Lestrade heard a slap that echoed in the courtroom.

They whipped their heads around to find it's source.

Apparently, the female officer had slapped Jim (how unprofessional).

Could what he had whispered _really_ have been _that bad?_

(_Yes._)

Now Jim's lawyer was saying something to (telling her off) the lady and Jim was blowing her a kiss as she snapped angrily and offendedly at the both of them.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Lestrade shouted as he jogged up to the altercation, Anderson and Donovan right behind them wanting to see the action up close.

Lestrade then traded jobs with the female court officer, who stalked off still angry and offended, taking Jim back to his cell.

Molly then left the courtroom herself.

Being _careful_, she about thirty minutes until she was sure that Lestrade (and Donovan and Anderson) had returned to Scotland Yard.

Then Molly traveled down the corridors of the courthouse towards the holding cells.

_She had to see Jim. _

She had to talk to him about what he had said the other day.

Molly wasn't _stupid._

She _knew _what what he had said _was. _

A _confession._

"_No reason." _

Jim had confessed some kind of _feeling,_ some kind of logic-less _emotion_ to her that night.

But Molly wasn't _stupid._

She _knew_ he didn't _feel things_ like _normal_ people do, she knew he didn't _do _emotions.

He only _pretended._

He _lied._

Jim had lied about feeling _something_, some _emotion_ for her.

And then, then very next day, he had gotten arrested.

Molly wasn't _stupid._

That had been no coincidence.

Obviously, Jim was trying to _mess_ with her.

To make her think that he actually _felt something_ for her…and then leave her (perhaps forever, if indeed he did get a life sentence (and didn't decide to break out or something)) alone and heartbroken.

But Molly wasn't _stupid. _

She wasn't going to _fall_ for it.

She wasn't going to fall for _him._

No.

Molly was going to march right up to Jim's cell and laugh in his face (which he wouldn't be able to do a thing about because they would be separated by bars or whatever jails were made of nowadays (Molly had never seen a jail before)).

She was going to prove to him, once and for all, that she _wasn't stupid. _

And then _he_ would be the one that _was stupid_ for ever thinking that she was _stupid _in the first place.

_She'd show him. _

Molly's pace quicken as she stomped towards the holding cells, all she had to do is turn a corner and she would be there (or so a court employee had told her).

But just as Molly was about to turn the corner, Lestrade appeared.

_What?_

He was supposed to have been _gone_ by now!

_What was he doing here?_

"_What _are you doing here?" Lestrade demanded, in a tone of voice Molly had never heard him use before—when he was speaking to _her._

This was the tone of voice he reserved for suspects (like Jim (and for _Sherlock_, too, when he was being especially Sherlock-like)).

"I'm here to see Sherlock…" Molly said, innocently.

"No you're not." Lestrade stated, "John already bailed him out."

"I didn't know—"

"_Yes you did._ You were in the waiting room. You saw them walk out together fifteen minutes ago."

"I—"

"And _you_ _said_ you were taking the train back to the hospital. So _why _are you even still here?"

"Why are _you?"_

"Because I'm not _stupid_, Molly!"

Lestrade's exclamation was sudden as he threw up his hands in an exasperation so pent up and hidden, as if built up and built up over such a long period of time that it was the kind Molly had thought only _she_ possessed.

"…what do you mean?" Molly inquired, nervously, fearing his answer.

"You know exactly what I mean. You're not stupid either…We both know that you're here to see Moriarty."

"…N-no! I am _not!_ Why would I be? I would never! I don't wanna see him! He's a criminal! I don't want anything to do with him! He killed people! He's crazy! Why would I go see him! I don't…"

Molly's frantic protestations trailed off when she saw Lestrade staring at her, unconvinced, shaking his head.

She never was a very good liar.

"I'm not stupid." Lestrade repeated, "I know something's going on with you and him. How else would you 'just know' he was the one responsible for the murder of that boy at the hotel? And those men on the street? Without any evidence? Why else would you say you'd be able to contact him and get him to meet with you at that coffee shop?"

"I was trying to get him arrested!" Molly reminded, "That _proves _that there is _nothing_ 'going on'!"

"I don't _know_ what you were 'trying' to do." Lestrade countered, "…For all I know there is 'nothing' going on between you and Moriarty—_and you're trying to change that!" _

"My god! I'm not! I swear!" Molly cried.

This was what she'd been fearing all along, Lestrade finally figuring it out about her and Jim.

And, _of course_, it would have to happen on the day (_one _of those days) that Molly had decided that she was _done_ with Jim.

For _good. _

(…For _now_…)

Molly was just that _lucky._

"Look, Molly, I get it…the two of you dated, you might still have feelings for him…" Lestrade said, with a sigh, "…it happens, it's _normal_. Sometimes it's just difficult to get over someone. I _understand_."

And then Molly understood.

It was almost _funny_, actually, she had to stop herself from laughing.

Molly could see the lack of wedding ring on Lestrade's finger.

She guessed him 'working things out' with his wife hadn't actually 'worked out' too well.

And it was taking its toll on Lestrade.

(His hair was grayer than normal. His eyes looked tired and he had been rubbing his back and the back of his neck all through the trial (and even was now, too, periodically), stretching trying (and failing) to get comfortable…probably because he had been sleeping on the couch as of late.)

_This _was why, suddenly, he was more _suspicious_ of Molly.

He had recognized the _same_ conflicting feelings of wanting to be with someone while at the same time knowing that you _shouldn't_ that Molly felt within himself.

"_I do not 'have feelings' for Jim Moriarty._" Molly insisted, and then, to make it more believable, she added, "…There's someone else…I have someone else that I—"

"Who? _Sherlock?_" Lestrade completed, and then groaned, "…Like that's any better. Of all the guys in the world, Molly, why _those two?_ They're not—they're _not normal! _They…Moriarty's a criminal, it's not safe. He'll kill you, eventually. _And you know it._ You're _not stupid_…And Sherlock, well, _he's Sherlock_. It's not like he _actually has_ normal human relationships. He won't ever notice you and don't take it personally, that's just the way it is. And you know _that_ too. You're not stupid! _For god's sake_, Molly, you're _not stupid_…you're not stupid…so why _them? Why them-"_

"And _not you?"_ Molly finished (Because she wasn't stupid. She could see where this was going. The same thing had even happened to her before).

"That's not what I—"

"What you meant?" Molly finished again, "_Yes it is._ And _really_, Detective Inspector, you wait to start all this once you and your wife break up? You didn't seem to_ care_ before."

"Yes I did." Lestrade stated and then realized what she had 'deduced', "…And how do you even know my wife and I—"

"Because I'm not stupid, Greg!" Molly exclaimed in the same way Lestrade had earlier, even tacking on his first name because that's what he had asked her to call him buy the night he had knocked on her door to ask about Jim (probably the same night he had gone home and started to sleep on the sofa).

"It's not even like that…" Lestrade sighed, almost _defeatedly._

He had come to confront _her_ and now it had been turned around _him. _

He was _losing._

"Then it's not even like that, either!" Molly reasoned, "Me coming back here to see Moriarty."

"So you _were_ going to—" Lestrade declared, triumphantly.

He had been _right!_

He was _winning. _

"Yes, of course!" Molly admitted, "You already said that! But like_ I_ said, it's not what you think…I was going to tell him to leave me alone. I was going to tell him to stop harassing me—"

"He was _harassing_ you?" Lestrade asked, both concerned and angered, "Are you alright? Why didn't you _tell anybody?_ Did he _threaten_ you? Did he _hurt _you? Why didn't you _report_ this?... Why didn't you tell _me?"_

"Because I am _not_ a _child_ and I can take care of myself." Molly snapped, "If you would realize—"

"_You _should realize I'm only trying to help you!"

"I don't_ need_ your help! I'm not a child!"

"I'm not treating you like a 'child'! I'm just trying to _protect_ you! _That's what friends do!..._and I _thought_ we were friends, Molly. I _care_ about you…"

Molly didn't care, she realized, she really just didn't _care._

(Maybe a year or two ago she would have, but not _now_, not _anymore…_)

But she _did _care about being arrested.

And it was actually kind of sweet what Lestrade had said.

"We _are _friends..." Molly stated, attempting a smile that was _almost_ passable, "…And_ I_ care about _you_, too…"

"Then, _as a friend_, I'm asking you to _please_ just _stay away_ from Moriarty." Lestrade requested, "He's too dangerous. I'm not just saying that because I think you can't take care of yourself or anything. I'm saying that because Moriarty is different. He's not your average criminal, he's not even your average _killer_! He's—he's just…_different._ Not _normal._ There's something very, very wrong with him…"

"Well maybe it's not his _fault!"_ Molly said suddenly, before she could stop herself, "He—he _and _Sherlock. They were just _born_ that way. They're just being _who they are! _It's not their_ fault_…but, still, they're _punished _for it—_for being_ _who they are_—everyday."

At that, Lestrade just shook his head again sighing and laughing sadly.

"You don't get it." He said, hopelessly, "You _just don't get it_…But how can you, I guess…You don't do _my_ job._ You_ don't _see_ what _I see_ everyday…_you only work with the aftermath…" _

"Don't get _what?"_ Molly inquired, folding her arms.

"Monsters aren't monsters because they're _born that way_, Molly." Lestrade explained, taking a breath, "Monsters are monsters because they're born that way and then _refuse to change…_I mean, look at Sherlock. He's different. He's not normal. He's even said _himself _that he is _so similar_ to Moriarty…but Sherlock is _not _a monster. He_ could_ be, _so easily_. He _could_ be _just like_ Moriarty, he'd probably enjoy it too the _exciting_ criminal lifestyle, the _thrill _of being on the other side of the _chase_ and being _smart _enough not to get _caught._ He'd never be _bored_. Sherlock could be _just like_ Moriarty, _if he wanted to_…but he's _not._ He's _not…_So what's Moriarty's _excuse?_ What's _any_ criminal's excuse?"

* * *

><p>The trial lasted four days.<p>

And on the fourth day, Jim Moriarty was found _not guilty_ and released from custody.

As he exited the holding cell and made his way through the courthouse towards the exit where he knew the crowd of reporters would be waiting for him, he couldn't help grinning to him.

_Everything was going according to plan. _

But before Jim reached the doors, a woman approached him.

"Kitty Riley." She introduced herself, extending a hand to shake, "Congratulations on the verdict, Mr. Moriarty."

Jim looked her up and down, raising an eyebrow.

She was dressed in a skirtsuit that was a similar color gray to the suit he was wearing.

It was _new_, but low quality from a cheap department store.

So _this_ was her _game._

Dress to impress the desired interviewee.

…and she_ was _a journalist, _wasn't she? _

Jim had seen her in the courtroom viewing box all four days of the trial, furiously taking notes.

The press wasn't technically allowed in for trial…so that meant Kitty (that _was _her name, right?) must have snuck in somehow.

So she wasn't just a journalist…she was _sleazy_, rule-breaking journalist.

Jim liked that.

_Maybe_ she'd be worth talking to.

"Thanks, hun." Jim said, and then stepped around her, pushing her outstretch arm out of his way, "I'd love to chat…but I've got somewhere to be."

He had to go see _Sherlock. _

(Not just yet, though…but he didn't need Kitty to know that.)

Jim continued to walk down the hall, towards the doors.

"_Wait!"_ Kitty called after him as he knew she would, "You'll _want _to hear what _I _have to say."

"…I _will?_" Jim asked, spinning around on his heel to face her.

"_Yes."_ Kitty affirmed, "And _I _want to hear what _you_ have to say, Mr. Moriarty. That's right. I want _you _to tell _me_ your story. I want _you _to tell me your story so that _I _can tell it to the _whole world."_

"Oh, stop _lying_. Journalists aren't _supposed _to lie." Jim groaned, rolling his eyes, "You only want my story because Sherlock Holmes wouldn't tell you _his."_

Kitty smiled.

"…how _do_ you _do that?"_ she inquired, "How do you both _do that?"_

"_It's a secret."_ Jim whispered.

"I like secrets." Kitty stated, still smiling.

"Yeah…" Jim nodded, "…_you like_ to go publish them in the papers for _everyone _to see and then they're not secrets anymore."

"It's my job." Kitty confirmed, "…but it's also your _chance_. You're chance to get _your side_ _of the story_ told to the public. You know, so everybody doesn't _hate _you…"

"Who says they _shouldn't '_hate' me?" Jim asked, "I _am_ a _monster_, after all."

"…but you don't have to be." Kitty countered, "…or at least you don't have to look like one—if you don't want to. Criminals aren't _born_, Mr. Moriarty, _they're made._ They're products of their environments, nothing more, it's not their fault. They're _not_ 'monsters'. _You're_ not a monster."

"You actually believe that?" Jim scoffed.

"It doesn't matter what_ I_ believe." Kitty shrugged, "What matters is what _they_ believe. And _they'll believe_ it. If I _tell_ them. _They'll believe it."_

"Well aren't _you_ the _all-powerful one_, then." Jim commented.

"_Words _are the powerful ones." Kitty corrected, "I just _use_ them. I'm just the storyteller. _You,_ Mr. Moriarty, are the _story_…and what story shall we tell them? What made you into the James Moriarty, the _monster_, that you are today?"

"Sherlock Holmes." Jim smiled, "Sherlock Holmes made me."

* * *

><p><strong>Dun dun dun!<strong>

**lol**

**Mommy, if you're reading this, I'm sorry!**

** ...and can you please review?**

**(that one goes for everyone, too)**

**:) **


	29. 2xLife, or, Double Lives

**I'M NOT DEAD!**

** ...or grounded. **

**Or anything, really, I'm just me lol I'm Over There. **

**lol.**

**And my mom actually likes my story! She's not ashamed/dissapointed/horrified of it/me! **

** Cool!**

** I love you, mom! **

**And I love all you reviewers too (thanks so much! I owe you guys my life-or was that my mom, I forget...)!**

**I'm soooooooo sorry this took so long!**

**School is...ugh...school. **

**I was gonna go straight to Reichenbach Falls...but then I rewatched the episode and saw a lovely caption... **

**'Two months later'**

**...and now I have two months to write, yay! **

**So this story will be dragged out and on longer! **

**Yay! (?)**

**lol**

**Hope you like it! **

* * *

><p>Jim didn't understand why everyone was <em>so surprised.<em>

Not guilty.

_Really? _

They were surprised at _that?_

…he had _'magically'_ broken into the Tower of London, Bank of England and Pentonville prison…all at once!

Not guilty.

_For god's sake, people! _

Surprise?

_Really?_

…of course, _Sherlock_ hadn't been 'surprised'.

Sherlock had even believed the bit about the code, too.

Jim hadn't thought he _would._

(Mycroft probably told him about it or something.)

…So now all the hungry wolves (his clients) believed it too.

And they all wanted him (for his code—how _shallow!_)…

_JM—_

_So the keycode IS real._

_Now I'm VERY interested._

_Name your price._

_**####**_

_Saw you on the telly today…_

…_that was YOU?_

_Nice face!_

_;)_

_**####**_

_Congrats on the acquittal, Mr. M!_

_How did you manage that one?_

_Nvm._

_Your code is enough 'magic' for me._

_Whatever you ask, I'll pay!_

_**####**_

_You set my employee up._

_You will pay for this._

_You owe me all the money in the Bank of England and you—_

(Text message deleted.)

…well _most_ of them, anyway.

Now that he and Sherlock had had their little 'tea party', it was time to visit Molly.

…he'd been doing a lot of that lately (_admittedly so_).

_So many times_ he was going to be 'done' with her (and so many _more _times she was going to be 'done' with him)…

…and then he (she) just _wasn't._

_Why? _

No reason.

_No reason. _

…except that, _hey_, people got _bored._

And Jim Moriarty was bored.

And so was Richard Brooke.

But the difference was that Richard Brooke _needed _to be bored. Needed to be _boring._

Rich was the one who had sent Molly those amazing(ly creepy) fairytale videos…

Rich was the one to tell her about the two ways someone can 'want' someone…

Rich was the actor (Jim was just the _pretender_ (acting play within a play)).

Rich was _normal. _

…and being normal, Rich needed one of those…'girlfriend' things.

Molly was the obvious choice.

Molly was normal (just like Rich).

And Molly was _convenient._

(…plus, Rich _maybe_ (sort of, kind of)_ liked_ her.)

And so, Jim Moriarty went to see her.

_No_—Richard Brooke did.

And so, Richard Brooke went to see Molly Hooper.

* * *

><p>…<em>Not Guilty. <em>

Not Guilty.

_Not Guilty?_

Molly's jaw dropped in shock and horror (in surprise and joy) as she listened to television reporter after television report state the verdict _"not guilty"_.

_What, were those jurors crazy? _

…No.

_Of course not! _

They were _sane. _

_Very sane. _

The _very sane_ jurors had been _very sane_ to do exactly what Jim Moriarty had told them to (and so remain alive).

(Which was the same reason _Molly _did exactly what Jim Moriarty told her to do. Because she was _very sane_. Yes. _Definitely._)

"Hear _that_, Toby?" she asked her cat, who sat, also watching from her lap, "Jim's 'not guilty'."

(She mimicked the solemn voices of the reporters which failed to hide their disturbed confusion at their own words.)

Toby lay his head down on his front paws, settling into her lap.

The newsfeed changed from the man on the steps of the courthouse, to a crowd of reporters in some city square where apparently Lestrade was giving a press conference.

Lestrade was also repeating two words,_ "No comment." _

Molly clicked off the screen with the remote, standing up (and forcing Toby to, as well) from the couch and starting towards the kitchen.

It was the middle of the afternoon.

…So_ why_ was Molly not at work (_again_)?

"That's right, Toby, Jim's 'not guilty'…" Molly repeated as her pet followed from the carpet onto the tile, allowing herself to laugh.

Toby expected a meal (but it _was _the middle of the afternoon so he'd be expecting for a long time) however, instead of reaching into the cabinet with the cans of cat food, Molly pulled the (rarely used) tea kettle (gift from her sister as a 'flat warming present' (and a joke)) and the tea (also rarely used (Molly was a coffee person (…and so was Jim) but this was an _occasion_).

"_Not guilty._ Jim's_ not guilty_…" Molly continued, glancing down at the expectant cat who mewed, "…and Molly's _not stupid_. She knows he'll be here. Sooner or later. Molly knows Jim'll be here…and so mummy's putting on a pot of tea for when daddy gets back—_no."_

And that was enough of talking to her cat (herself) for the day.

From then on, Molly waited in silence, cups of tea (and milk and sugar), waiting with her, ready but getting cooler and cooler with each passing second.

She was expecting Jim, _yes_, but it _was _the middle of the afternoon and so she'd be expecting for a long time.

It wasn't until almost seven thirty in the evening that Jim finally arrived.

"Adorable." Jim said, as he strolled into her apartment (after he had opened her door with a key he somehow apparently had) "You made tea. And it's gone cold, so you've been _waiting_. Adorable, Molly, just _adorable_…now be a dear and make daddy some coffee, it's been a _long day!"_

(….'Daddy'…? _God!_ How had he _known?_)

Jim leaned against the counter, yawning, and staring at Molly expectantly once his eyes opened.

She jumped up from the stool she had been sitting (dozing on) and hurried towards the coffeemaker (also rarely used, she usually just got her coffee at the hospital cafeteria (…and sometimes, at a little shop a few blocks away)), then going through the necessary rituals for the machine to rain down that much sought-after elixir of life.

"I knew you'd be coming." Molly said, her back turned to him as she made the coffee.

"I did too." Jim replied.

She was sure he must have been shrugging.

Molly heard the stool screech against the floor, indicating that Jim had sat down.

"…you're _late."_ Molly tried (_risked_), still not facing him.

Jim snorted.

"I had _better_ things to do." He stated.

And she didn't try (_risk_) again.

There was some clinking on the countertop and Molly knew Toby must have hopped up there and knocked over the tea cups.

Great.

Now she'd have _another_ mess (at least she's be able to clean _this_ one up).

But she didn't bother to turn around until the coffee was made (just _one_ cup. It was only for him. Her mouth was dry but she wasn't thirsty).

By that time Jim had already wiped up the spilled, cold tea…

…_with his suit-jacket._

(!)

"What are you…" Molly started but stopped. _No point in asking._

"You know…" Jim began, looking up at her briefly and then back down at the countertop he was mopping up and the expensive piece of clothing he was destroying, "…I really _hate _grey. So _boring. _Neutral. _Yuck!... _It's _disgusting!"_

He whipped up the jacket, flapping it a couple times so that brown sprayed everywhere, causing Molly to flinch backwards (almost spraying Jim's coffee everywhere and causing _another_ brown mess).

She set the cup down for him on the counter, and then, tentatively, took the dripping jacket from his hands.

"…I'll just…uh…get this dry-cleaned for you…"

"Don't bother. I said I hate grey."

He sat back down on the stool, back to the counter where his elbows rested (and his white shirt was soaking up the remaining spill).

"Then why—"

"Did I wear it? _Because Sherlock always wears black._ Can't wear the same color dress to the prom as him, now can I?"

"…Why not _white_, then? Isn't that, like, um…the _opposite_ of black?"

"Isn't obvious?"

"…oh right. Cause white represents 'goodness' and 'angels' and, um, _things like that." _

Toby was back up on the countertop and then he was down in Jim's lap, purring and further ruining the clothing that Molly could _not _afford to replace with his fur.

"Hmm, you're right." Jim nodded in mock consideration, "…never even thought of that one."

"But then—"

"Oh, come on, Molly! It's obvious! _Think!" _

"I don't—I don't know!"

Molly shook her head desperately.

Jim shook his, laughing.

"I don't wear white suits… because white's _your_ color."

And he was _right_, of course.

Even though she wasn't even at work, Molly was still wearing her white labcoat (now stained with tiny brown stars).

As always, Molly felt silly (_stupid_).

Jim was still chuckling and so Molly just joined in because she might as well (it served Jim pretty well, didn't it?).

She, a little reluctantly, dumped the wet jacket into the trash-bin.

Jim grabbed his coffee and gulped it down although it was probably still scalding.

"…Lestrade knows." Molly told him, after a while of just _staring_ at him (as if she actually thought he would be sentenced to life in prison (like he deserved) and she'd never see him again and_ finally_ 'all would be right with the world' (but not _her_ world)).

"… '_Knows'?_" Jim repeated, raising and eyebrow and setting down the mug.

"Knows about us." Molly explained, "Lestrade knows about us."

"… 'us'?"

"...yeah, _'us'_. Aren't we, like, well…_together,_ or something?"

"You know, Molly, sometimes I just don't _get _you. One day you're all over me, the next you're trying to get me arrested. So if we went by that kind of label, darling…we'd have 'broken up' almost _every other day _now. I never know where I stand with you."

_Oh!_

So _he_ 'didn't know' where he stood with _her! _

Ha, ha…_sure._

"…I just…I—"

He _did _have a _point._

"The reason Lestrade 'knows'—if that idiot really_ does _know _anything_—is because_ you_ told him! I mean, you're the one who told him your 'mystically acquired knowledge' about my fling with the hotel boy and the three Grinches who tried to steal your Christmas…."

Okay.

He _really did_ have a point.

Like, _really._

"…. And he should be _thanking me_ for what I did. Those men were muggers and that kid was drinking underage. _They were all criminals!_ They got what they _deserved_. _I was doing a public service! _Scotland Yard should give me a medal for what I did, cleaning up the streets. They should call me 'the world's only consulting vigilante', wouldn't you agree?"

…But not _that._

_That _went _too far._

That was _wrong._

"…Not really, no…but, um, well Lestrade _knows." _Molly fumbled, twisting her free hands nervously around each other, looking at Toby rather than Jim's face, "…And _you're here. _And Lestrade _knows_. So maybe you shouldn't, you know…_be here."_

"Are you…. kicking me out, Molly?" Jim asked, voice flat as hand slapping a face, one eyebrow raised once again.

His absentminded strokes to Toby's fur stopped…which, for some reason, caused Molly's hands to freeze and clench awkwardly.

She slowly lifted her eyes to meet Jim's gaze.

His eyes were empty and black.

"N-no!" Molly denied, quickly, "I'm not saying that…I'm just saying it's not _safe._ It's not safe here. Lestrade knows where I live, he'll come here and—"

"Come here and do _what?_" Jim interrupted, "_Arrest me?_ I don't _think_ so. _You _on the other hand…"

"…you _want_ me to be _arrested?"_ Molly inquired.

"Well, that _would_ be quite the sight to see…" Jim smirked, "Molly Hooper, _scared little mouse_ in _jail_…with all those _hungry cats."_

"…no!" Molly exclaimed, knowing exactly what he was trying to mean (this time, at least).

"…I dunno, Molly, I don't they're all that bad, cats…" Jim mused, petting Toby again, "In fact, I find them _adorable_…isn't that right, Toby? You're just _adorable,_ aren't you? _Oh, I could just eat you up…"_

And Molly did _not_ slap her forehead.

"I don't want either of us to go to prison." She stated, moving slightly towards him, "…so if we're going to meet, I think we should do it some place else."

"Do you want me to leave right now?" Jim questioned, looking up at Molly from where he sat.

"No!" Molly cried, and then, realizing she had sounded too urgent added, "No. I mean…No, there's no need. You're already here so, of course, _you_ can stay…Stay the night. Um, you can leave in the morning, I guess…and go down the fire escape so nobody sees you…"

"How cliché." Jim rolled his eyes.

"It wasn't 'cliché' when you were breaking into my window when you knew Lestrade was here!" Molly reminded.

"God, not _Lestrade_ again." Jim groaned, "You just _can't stop talking _about that guy, can you? Personally, I've had _enough _of him..."

"_Me too."_ Molly agreed, fervently nodding.

"Oh, _really."_ Jim countered, "I thought he was like your _adoring little puppy_ now, yapping and chasing after your heels, trying to get your attention, _slobbering all over you…" _

"_No."_ Molly shook her head, "…At least not after yesterday._ Especially_ not after yesterday. _Not anymore._"

"…Got in bit of a _fight _with him, did you?" Jim asked, smiling (as if he knew exactly what the answer was), "Good for you, finally standing up for yourself. My little mouse is not so 'little' anymore, _not a_ _child_, now is she? Molly's _all grown up…" _

(…'Not a child'? God! How had he _known?)_

_No point in asking. _

"He figured it out." Molly recounted, "I was in the courthouse, I was going back to the cells to see you…and he _knew. _He was there waiting for me."

"Oh, so_ that's_ why you didn't pay me a visit." Jim shrugged, "I was wondering…I _did _see you in the courtroom, though. Sitting with your puppy, of course. He was very protective of you…"

"Lestrade's protective of everyone—female that is.." Molly reasoned, "…Even that guard when _she_ was the one that slapped _you._"

"…Oooh, I _remember_ that. _Ouch._" Jim feigned pain, rubbing his cheek.

"…What was that all about anyway?" Molly dared to ask.

Jim grinned.

"Wanna know what I said to her?" he offered.

Molly dared to nod a 'yes'.

Jim stood up (forcing Toby to, as well) and approached Molly.

Leaning in, he cupped his hands around her ear, whispering _something._

Molly's eyes and mouth grew wide with shock.

She couldn't help but gasp.

He couldn't help but laugh.

* * *

><p>After their awkward conversation (argument?) Lestrade and Molly had gone their separate ways, her to the hospital and him to Scotland Yard.<p>

The next day, Lestrade had returned to the courthouse to hear the sentencing of Jim Moriarty.

Not Guilty.

_What the hell?_

What _was_ that jury _thinking?_

This _had _to be a set up!

And there was _no way_Lestrade was going to let Moriarty get away with this.

Lestrade (with a newspaper strategically positioned over his face) waited until Moriarty had 'left the building' (after having an interesting conversation with a journalist), into the crowd of his adoring fans (the media (the _vulture_s (Yes! _Eat him alive! _Please!))) and then walked away down the street.

Lestrade followed him.

Whenever Moriarty crossed a street, Lestrade crossed the same street.

Whenever Moriarty turned a corner, Lestrade turned the same corner.

He was _not _letting him escape!

…And it was only after about twenty minutes of walking that Lestrade realized that they were going in circles.

They had turned a corner, crossed a street and then suddenly they were in front of the courthouse again.

_Goddammit!_

Moriarty must have figured out Lestrade that was following him.

But _how?_

Moriarty had been texting (on the phone the police were forced to return to him now that it was no longer evidence since he had been acquitted) the entire time he had been leisurely strolling down the streets of London.

How had he even _seen_ Lestrade?

It didn't matter.

Lestrade stopped, by the steps of the courthouse, and sighed.

_…__maybe he was going about this the wrong way._

_Maybe_ he should just straight out _confront_ the guy.

What was Moriarty going to do, anyway? Turn around and shoot him?

Get himself put right back in jail when he had just gotten set free?

_Lestrade didn't think so_.

"Wait!" he called after Moriarty, who turned around, briefly to look at him, glancing up from his smartphone.

And then he started to _run._

The _guilty_ ones _always_ran.

And it was Lestrade's job to chase them.

_So he did. __  
><em>_  
><em>Whenever Moriarty crossed a street, Lestrade crossed the same street.

Whenever Moriarty turned a corner, Lestrade turned the same corner.

And Lestrade turned that same corner...

...into a crowd of reporters.

_What?_

"Detective Inspector, Detective Inspector!"

Instantly, Lestrade was being barraged by a bombardment of reporters, microphones and cameras attacking his face.

"Any comment on the Moriarty verdict?" one demanded, pen and notepad ready to write down whatever Lestrade had to say "What do you have to say about this _crushing defeat _of Scotland Yard!"

"No comment!" Lestrade shouted.  
>There had to be at least a hundred of them (actually more like thirty or so but that was a lot), the square between four tall buildings was packed like an exploding minefield.<p>

_Where_ had they all _come from?_

_What_ were they all _doing here?_

Lestrade attempted to push his way through the crowd of media personnel but like the waves of the ocean they crashed him backwards, swallowing him in their mass.

_Where _was Moriarty?

_Gone._

Disappeared into the sea of people.  
><em><br>Damn this!_

"…'No comment', Detective Inspector Lestrade? " Another reporter asked, "Then _why_did you schedule this press conference?"

"What?" Lestrade exclaimed, "I didn't schedule—oh!…_of course_..."

Moriarty must have _planned _this; Moriarty must have lured the ever-ravenous animals (the media) here by text message with the false promise of a good meal (a Scotland Yard comment of the (_shocking_) verdict).

_Moriarty had set him up!_

And _where_ was Moriarty again?

…_gone. _

Gone! Gone! Gone!

He had gotten away!

_Again!_ _  
><em>  
>He was probably on a plane to like China or somewhere by now...<p>

…or _worse._

Visiting his _'best friend'_ Sherlock...or his girlfriend Molly.

And there was nothing Lestrade could do about it.

He groaned, cursing to him self and then stalking away, the trail of reporters following him like hungry sharks.

* * *

><p>IOU<p>

IOU

IOU

Sherlock repeated the letters to himself, over and over and over again his mind.

I

O

U

Just _what _did those three letters _mean...?  
><em>

Jim Moriarty had been _here._

Sherlock had been _expecting_ him.

"_I owe you a fall, Sherlock."_ Moriarty had said, _"I… Owe… You."_

IOU

And then he had carved into an apple.

IOU

But _why?_

Obviously it was some kind of _symbol _for _something_…but _what?_

IOU

IOU

IOU

…Could it be _the code_, perhaps…?

No.

_Too short._

Something that _small_ wouldn't have the_ power_ to break into the Tower of London, Bank of England and Pentonville Prison…_especially _all at once.

…and how would Jim Moriarty acquire such a code in the first place?

He certainly didn't _create _it _himself._

_Obviously not. _

Moriarty was smart, yes, a genius, quite likely…

…but him having the _attention span_ to sit down and make something so _complicated_ (and frankly, _pointless_) that it would take hours, days, perhaps even _years_ of his time…

_Never. _

Even _Sherloc_k wouldn't be that _stupid_ to waste his mind and energy doing something so without-purpose (_boring_) as computer coding.

And neither would Moriarty.

That was one thing (among many others) that they had in common.

They didn't tolerate boredom.

So who _would?_

_Who_ would spend hours, days, perhaps even _years _of his (or _her_—although a female creator was unlikely) his time creating this all-access keycode?

_Who? _

And _who_ (that _would_) would Moriarty have _known?_

_Who would he have gotten this code from? _

…a _client_, probably.

Someone who could _produce _this 'good'…but was unable to_ market _it.

That excluded all major computer and/or technology company employees (from the high level CEOs and founders, to the lowliest of programmers).

They would have had ample (overt and under-the-table) methods of selling (or using) the code.

Microsoft—_no. _

IBM—_no. _

Apple—_no. _

(.._etc_…)—_no._

No.

No.

No!

…so _who…_

...one of Moriarty's clients…

"_Big client list. Rogue governments, intelligence communities, terrorist cells…" _

Terrorist cells.

(Recovered— all information terrorist cells.)

"_You're skilled at hiding, Irene. How did they find you? Who told them your location?"_

"_James Moriarty." _

James Moriarty.

…but wasn't _Moriarty_ the one who had informed Sherlock of Irene being captured in Karachi so that Sherlock could rescue her?

(Recovered—Jim Moriarty's long text message.)

"_Irene Adler is in Karachi…I just want my beloved to be happy…"_

Why would he tell the terrorists where she was…and then tell _him? _

_It didn't add up… _

_Of course_, Moriarty had described himself as 'changeable'…

Moriarty had worked so hard to conceal his identity…and then revealed himself to Sherlock and John…

…and then tried to kill them (including _himself_)…and then let them all live.

'Changeable' indeed.

"_Sorry boys! I'm soooo changeable!" _

(Recovered—old blind woman. _Now deceased._ Blown up. By Moriarty.)

"_His voice was so soft…" _

"_Sorry boys! I'm soooo changeable!" _

"_His voice was so soft…" _

No, it _wasn't._

…still only _'changeable'…?_

(Recovered—first meeting with Jim Moriarty in pool locker-room. Seeing each other through their reflections in the mirror. Moriarty was laughing. No. _pretending_ to laugh.)

"…_Hey! What are you looking at? Huh? Yeah you! I know you hear me! I can see you standing there! What are you looking at, bright eyes? What are you staring at? Answer me! Say something, pretty boy, say something!"_

"…"

"…_just say something…" _

But Sherlock had said _nothing._

He had had to go.

_Go_…

…to _where_, though?

(Recovered—destination. _Home_.)

He was _late._

_Late…_

…to _what_, though?

(Recovered—destination. _Math lesson_.)

"_Sherlock. You're late. Where were you?" _

"_I was at school—" _

"_You need practice in lying as much as you need it in math. I know you were at that pool—"_

"_I waste my time with athletics! Mycroft you know that—" _

"_I know why you were at that pool… But your dealer didn't arrive, did he?" _

"_I—" _

"_You waited for him…that's why you're late. But he didn't come. It's a shame when people don't make their appointments. How rude—" _

"_Yes. 'How rude'. Which is exactly why you should stop delaying me from my math lesson. I'm late." _

"_Your tutor is a very important man, Sherlock. He doesn't have time to waste. You should consider yourself lucky that such an accomplished businessman as—" _

(-Deleted. The name of the tutor had been deleted.)

(In fact, Sherlock had deleted most of his episodic memory in his mind from ages thirteen (when he had started smoking) to twenty-six (when Mycroft had finally locked him a dark room long enough for full withdrawal and recovery) so that his body could delete its dependence on addictive 'medications'.)

…what _was_ the tutor's _name?_

"…_such an accomplished businessman as—"_

As _who?_

…what _was_ the tutor's _name?_

"_I'm not stupid. I know numbers. I can do math—If I wanted to…waste my time, that is. It's a waste of time. Boring. It's so repetitive. Boring. Always the same. Boring. Such strict, absolute rules. Boring. Only a pattern. Boring. Too easy. Boring… Boring. Boring. Boring! Like that. Again and again and again. Boring." _

"…_Boring?"_

"_Yes. Boring." _

"_So you say that numbers are boring?" _

"_Yes." _

"_Patterns are boring?" _

"_Yes." _

"_Boring?" _

"_Yes! Boring! How many times must I repeat it? It's boring. Math is boring! Numbers are boring! Patterns are boring!" _

"…_but you like to play the violin, right?" _

"_Yes…so…?" _

"_Well what do you think music is?" _

"_Music is—" _

"_Music is numbers. Music is a pattern…Do you know why you can play the same song on your violin in both 'A Minor'—"_

(-Recovered. A Minor. Johann Sebastian Bach. _"Thank you, Johann Sebastain Leopold…" _Moriarty had said. And Sherlock had been playing violin.)

"…_Do you know why you can play the same song on your violin in both 'A Minor' and say, 'D Sharp'?"_

"_The scales. There are different scales." _

"_Yes. 'Scales'. Patterns. Ratios…numbers. Music is numbers. Think of it that way." _

"_Why should I?" _

"_Because it's true. You can hear each number in your head…if you listen." _

"_I don't hear. I see. I see the colors. I see the music—" _

"_Then look! See the numbers. They have colors too! They have shapes. If you can't see them, you're not looking. You're just not paying attention…" _

"_That's because they're not worth paying attention to, numbers!"_

"_Yes they are. Numbers are patterns. Patterns are how you memorize. How you predict. How you know…what color is A?" _

"_Huh?" _

"_The note, A. You said you saw the colors in music. So what color does the note A sound?" _

"…_Yellow." _

"…_and what number is yellow?"_

"…_Four—no. Five. Or, um… both of them. Four and five. They're both yellow…I think…"_

"_Good…." _

"_Yes. They're both yellow. But…but five is a bit darker and four is a bit lighter…or no…maybe four is green—" _

"_The number or the sound of the number?" _

"…_I'm not sure." _

"_Don't get them confused. The sound and the symbol are different colors. What color is the sound of the number four?" _

"…_green. That's the four that's green. The symbol's still yellow. Light yellow. Five is dark yellow…almost orange." _

"_And then what?" _

"_Six is red. The sound….I'm not sure the symbol…or spelled out." _

"_Don't use the letters. Don't get them confused." _

"…_Oh, this is just making it more complicated!" _

"_Yes…but is it still boring?" _

"…_no." _

"_Good." _

And after that first lesson, Sherlock didn't have any trouble with math anymore…once he did _'apply himself'_ (as Mycroft had put it).

…but _what_ was the tutor's _name?_

The tutor that taught him that math was the same color as music and music was just patterns and ratios and _numbers._

…what was his _name?_

(Sherlock had simply called him 'The Tutor' (to which Mycroft had made a joke about Henry VII (to which 'The Tutor' had politely laughed)) instead of bothering to learn his name…but he _had_ heard it, hadn't he? He _must have_…)

He must have _'deleted'_ it.

"_Your tutor is a very important man, Sherlock. You should consider yourself lucky that such an accomplished businessman as—" _

As _who?_

"_Sherlock, this is your new math tutor, Mr.—" _

Who?

"_He's been very successful, not only in his field mathematics, but in the business world as well. He's very busy and yet, as a favor to me, he'll be taking time out of his schedule every week to assist you with your calculus." _

Who?

"…_Don't treat him so coldly, Sherlock. He's not just you're average teacher. Not even just your average mathematician...no. he's not one of them. He's one of us. He's like us, Sherlock. He's a genius…"_

Who?

…_Who?_

(Recovered—tutor's name. _James Moriarty._)

James Moriarty!

…obviously not the same James Moriarty as the 'consulting criminal' recently acquitted that had come to visit (no, an older one, by at least a decade…) but one with the _same name. _

A _coincidence?_

"_No such thing." _Mycroft had said, regarding coincidences.

"_A statistical improbability." _'The Tutor' (James Moriarty) had said.

…_so_…

So a mathematical genius could have _produced_ a keycode _powerful _enough to break into the Tower of London, Bank of England and Pentonville prison…all at once…

…and then given it to 'consulting criminal' James Moriarty (related? _most likely brothers_) to _market _and _sell._

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however _improbable_, must be the truth."

Improbable.

(Recovered—'theimprobableone'. John's blog. Annoying comments. Previously deleted (from Sherlock's mind, not John's blog)… was Moriarty (_which one?_) trying to tell him something…?)

But it explained everything.

It all added up.

Of course, if James Moriarty (Recovered—computer coding. Security systems. PICA. _Eyes everywhere._ Defense contracting…British government…Mycroft…) the 'accomplished businessman' (as Mycroft had put it) wanted to stay an _'accomplished businessman'_…

…he would want someone with the same name committing crimes overtly, ruining both their reputations (especially if they were related (most likely brothers)).

(Recovered—_brothers._)

_"I knew you wouldn't be able to resist winning a game…You're too competitive. Do you think it comes from having an older brother that's always, always no matter how hard you try, how hard you think, always, always better than you? Smarter than you?"_

_"Mycroft is no one to compete with, he's too busy…and too lazy…But that's an interesting psychological insight, even if it is incorrect. I wonder where that came from…Personal experience, perhaps?"_

_"Perhaps."_

But because Jim Moriarty was Jim Moriarty…one can't just 'stop' him from committing crimes…

…and so James Moriarty would just have to make sure Jim Moriarty wasn't doing it _overtly._

_And because Jim Moriarty was Jim Moriarty…_

…he would make even _that_ difficult.

Which explained why James Moriarty was so _'changeable'. _

Because he was _two different people. _

_Two_ men, _one_ name.

* * *

><p>Acting was an easy living.<p>

_Too easy. _

_Boring. _

But boring was _good._

Richard Brooke was _supposed _to be boring.

And after his 'hard (_easy_) day's work' of shooting (children's television, not people), Rich returned to the hotel he was staying at while he was in London (for shooting (children's television (not people)).

And then Jim would wait at the bar for Molly.

_No_—Rich.

And then _Rich_ would wait at the bar for Molly.

(Rich was the _actor._ Jim was just the _pretender._)

Rich would wait at the hotel bar for his girlfriend Molly, a hospital employee (what exactly did she do, again?), who would usually arrive around nine-ish at night.

He'd get up and greet her, a kiss and an embrace (because they wanted _everyone_ to _know_), and then they'd go up to their room 221 (which was just a random number).

Then Jim would—

_No!_

_Not _Jim.

_Rich. _

Richard Brooke.

(Richard Brooke was the _actor._ Jim Moriarty was the _pretender._ Jim was just _pretending_…_only pretending_…)

Then Rich and Molly would do what people do when they were 'together' (as Molly labeled it).

And it was all very nice.

And _normal._

And _boring._

Just like Rich and Molly _were_.

Just like Richard Brooke was _supposed _to be.

And it was always _adorable._ Just _adorable_.

Tonight was no different.

Tonight, in her coat, scarf and sunglasses (coat buttoned, scarf rapped around her head, sunglasses huge), Molly came into the hotel out of the pleasantly cool march night.

Seeing Jim, waiting for her at the bar (shifting back and forth on the stool impatiently, tapping the empty glass in his hand) she approached him.

He was up immediately and then right in front of her.

He kissed her before she could speak.

"You sure it's _safe…?"_ She whispered, when she could, "Always meeting here, at the same place, every night?"

"Darling, we've nothing to worry about," Jim dismissed, with a chuckle, "even the great Sherlock Holmes wouldn't recognize you in _that_ disguise."

And so, of course, he pulled the (cheap, tacky) sunglasses off her face and the scarf from around her hair, then kissing her again.

"I'm just trying to be safe..." She sighed.

(This wasn't _normal_, having to go _'incognito'_ to see your 'boyfriend' (?), having to hide and sneak around and _lie._ It just wasn't normal. I_t wasn't right._..but it also wasn't _boring._)

"You're just ashamed to be seen with me." Jim corrected, rolling the scarf around the sunglasses and then tossing the wad onto the nearby sofa, "I mean, really, the winter-coat? _It's so last season…"_

"_Sherlock's_ still wearing _his _coat." Molly stated, folding her sleeved arms, "He _always _wears a coat, no matter the weather… it's actually kinda _fashionable_ now, ever since he got _famous._"

Jim rolled his eyes.

"You know _nothing _about fashion." He groaned, knowing that beneath the coat was another one of her frumpy grandma outfits that were so egregious (_adorable_), "…Besides, dear…you're not here to see _Sherlock_, are you?"

"_No,_ I'm _not_..." Molly shook her head, smiling just a little as she dared to whisper, "I'm here to see _you_… _Jim Moriarty_."

* * *

><p><strong>Hi, mommy!<strong>

**...that button that says 'Review'...**

**...click it.**

**No, you don't have to have an account and _yes_, I'm that desperate! **


	30. High Tolerance

**Doing nothing at school. **

**That's American high school system for you. **

**Wish I could stay home and write so then these updates wouldn't take so long. **

**lol.**

**Oh, yeah...and I forgot to mention...**

**The reason James was Sherlock's tutor was because my homie Wikipedia told me there was this story where Moriarty was fake and John just got that name because Sherlock went to rehab or something and told him to tell people he was gone for three years because of his math tutor. **

**Or something like that. **

**lol, again. **

* * *

><p>"..the first thing you'll notice is <em>the smell<em>." he told her on 'orientation day', "...other than seeing the dead bodies, of course, is their _smell_. It's just overwhelming..._at first."_

"It doesn't bother me..." she replied.

Molly followed the old man down the stairs, from where they had met at the front desk near the entrance to St. Bartholomew's, into the dim basement hallway, through a few heavy doors that he didn't hold open for her and then turned the corner into their destination.

The morgue.

The first thing that Molly noticed, actually, was the cold.

She shivered.

"Put this on." The old man told her, pulling a white labcoat off the hook by the door and pushing it into her hands.

There was also another light switch by the hook, but he didn't bother flipping it on, instead continuing to stride into the room.

Molly struggled to get the labcoat on while hurrying after him further into the room.

It wasn't warm and it was easily stained. _So what was its purpose?_ Molly didn't ask.

She just did as she was told; she just did as she had always done.

There was a body, torso cut wide open and skin folded to reveal red insides, lying mid examination on the metal table.

"Smell it _now?_" The old man asked, "Does it bother you now?"

Molly shook her head.

"No." She said when she remembered that the old man wasn't looking at her and was standing next to the table, gazing down at the corpse.

"You don't _smell it_…?" he asked, "…or it _doesn't bother you_…?"

"…I…It doesn't bother me." Molly answered.

"You'll just watch me for today." The old man stated, walking around the gray table to stand on its other side so that Molly could see his face, "I know you'll say you already know how to do this, I know you'll say they taught you this in medical school and you graduated with 'top marks' or whatever and that's why you were hired, after all, that's what they _all _say…But we do things _differently_ here. Here we do things _my_ way. And so you'll have to learn again."

The old man lifted his tools as if they were utensils, cutting into the body as if he was savoring a choice steak.

Molly watched.

"You'll get used to it, you know..." the old man hummed, after a while of silent work, not glancing up at her.

"I know." Molly accepted, quietly, studying his technique.

"You really will." He insisted, while operating, "You'll get used to it...and _one day_ you won't even _notice_ _it at all_ and then you won't even notice that you're not even noticing it..."

Molly nodded again and then remembered again that he wasn't looking at her.

But before she could voice her accordance, the old man did.

"It's really _funny_, you know…" he chuckled, as if talking to the opened corpse below him, "what a person can get used to...you can get used to _almost anything_..._No._ Not even 'almost'. You_ can_ get used to anything. _Anything._ You just build up a tolerance for it, whatever it is, be...and you _will_, too. To the bodies. To the blood. To the _smell_..._You will_...unless, that is, you quit within the first five years like most people that take this job."

"I won't." Molly asserted, speaking louder and more assuredly than she had ever to someone that she had just met.

"Won't get _used to it_…?" the old man asked, "…or you won't _quit?_"

"_I won't quit."_ Molly declared.

And then the old man looked up at her. _Finally looked at her._

"Then you _will_." He said, "You _will_ get used to it."

* * *

><p>"John, I'll be at the morgue seeing about the case..."<p>

"Be nice."

"…_What?"_

"Be nice. To Molly..."

"...alright...?"

"I'm serious, Sherlock, _be nice_. You're always taking advantage of her. One day she might notice-"

"Unlikely. She's hardly most perceptive of-"

"_Sherlock,_ one day she night _notice_, get _tired_ _of it _and then stop helping you at all."

"And you care _because?_That would be less nonfood items in the fridge..."

"I'm _serious._ _Just. be. nice_. You never know how much a person can take...before they break."

"Beautiful poetry, John."

"I'm serious. _Be nice._Just be nice."

"_Fine, _John, I'll _'be nice'_, I'll be nice…"

And so he _was._

(...or at least he _tried _to be.)

"It's not you." Sherlock stated.

Molly had been staring at him from the doorway to the lab where Sherlock was focusing a microscope an evidence sample had 'borrowed' from the latest crime scene.

She was waiting to bare witness to another one of his brilliant, spontaneous insights.

She hadn't even realized that he'd realized she was there.

Normally he never did.

"…_huh?"_ Molly squeaked, jumping because his voice (attention) had startled her, "…um, what do you mean?"

"It's not you." Sherlock repeated, "…It's yoursmell."

"My_ smell…?" _Molly questioned, stepping into the room and raising an eyebrow.

Her tone was accusatory, but rightfully so.

"Well not_ your_ smell, technically…." Sherlock clarified, "_The_ smell."

"What smell?" Molly demanded, folding her arms, "…and what do you mean 'it's not' me?"

"What I mean," Sherlock began, turning to her, "is that it's 'not you'-_isn't that how people say it?_ 'it's not you, it's me'?..._of course,_ it's not _'me'_, actually and I don't mean 'me' as in _me._ I just mean in general. _Men in general._ And it's not them—_although that's probably what they say_ 'it's not you, Molly, it's me'…But it's not _you_ either. _It's the smell. _I just thought you should know that. It's the smell."

"…what?" Molly asked, thoroughly confused.

"Well you are having trouble with men, right?" Sherlock checked, "Boyfriends, relationships—_or lack thereof._ Pointless things like that."

"…no, I'm n—"

"You are. Good."

" '_Good'?"_

"As I was saying, it's not _your_ fault you're having these problems. It's not _you_…it's _the smell._ The smell of _dead._"

"What—"

"Human attraction is partially based on pheromones, chemicals—_smell._ That's the reason you're having difficulty finding a mate—I mean 'boyfriend'—"

"I'm not having trouble finding—"

"Because of the smell. The smell of dead. People find other people's scents either attractive or unattractive_, subconsciously_, because a person's unique body odor indicates their health as well as their genetic—uh, _romantic_ compatibility with others…and _you_, Molly, _smell like dead_. It's only natural that men avoid you."

"They don't avoid—"

"It's human nature to recoil away from death. Most likely they don't even realize why they don't want you. And neither did you. So I'm telling you. I'm telling you so you'll know it's not your fault; it's not _you._ Perhaps now you'll 'feel better', which is my goal in informing you of this…it's that _'being nice'_ thing John's always talking about, ridiculous, really, but I suppose it _is_ useful sometimes. Regardless, there are methods to mask the smell of decomposition. Onions have an odor powerful enough to distract from the scent of death…

Sherlock's words trailed off when he saw Molly standing there in front of him…_angry._

She wasn't even trying to hide it.

Her eyebrows were furrowed, her arms were folded and her hands were even in tight fists.

Molly's mouth opened as if she was going to _shout_ something…

…but then it closed and she sighed.

"Thanks, Sherlock." She forced a something close to a smile, "I'll keep that in mind…And now I'll let you get back to work. I've got to get back to mine, after all."

Molly turned and walked out of the room… not too quickly, though, because_ that _would be _rude._

And just because _Sherlock_ was rude did _not _mean _she_ had to be.

Besides, Molly was _used to_ Sherlock behaving this way. It was just what he did.

Sherlock, apparently, had never learned (or if he had, he had 'deleted') the automatic, practiced politeness that Molly (and most people) did automatically, ingrained from such a young age that it seemed almost inherent, like they just _knew. _

Sherlock was rude.

It _was '_him'.

But wasn't _his fault_.

…and what if Sherlock _had _been trying to be 'nice' and just simply didn't understand how.

Molly felt almost _sorry _for him, actually, him who knew everything not 'knowing any better'.

That's why she _tolerated _Sherlock, despite his personality.

(…and what if that meant Jim was _wrong?_ That he had been wrong in saying Molly only put up with Sherlock _because_ he was a genius (implying, of course, that she put up with Jim _even though_ he was a criminal—_Molly wasn't stupid_) and that Molly_ really_ put up with Sherlock _even though_ he was rude? And if it _was_ right that Jim had been wrong…what did _that _mean?)

* * *

><p>"...Jim?"<p>

The question was vague and hesitant; her voice was soft and high.

She didn't know if he could even hear her.

She could _see _him.

It was dark but the city's lights snuck in the through the floor-length, un-curtained window.

His back was turned from her as he lay on his side, she guessed his eyes were probably closed too.

It_ was_ almost one AM, after all.

_Maybe he was even trying to sleep…. _

(She didn't often see him sleep and when she thought she did she was never really sure (except for that one time she had used a sedative on him) especially because he would open his eyes and catch her staring.)

"…_Molly?" _

He was awake.

He had mimicked her voice, exaggeratedly, with his reply.

But he didn't turn to face her and so she gazed at the back of his (and his bare back) trying to imagine his facial expression.

"Do I...um..._smell bad?"_

"What?"

It had been a snort of laughter but she saw his shoulders tighten (should she _touch _them? Should she rub his back so he could relax? Should she touch _him?_).

"Do I smell bad? Do I smell like_ 'dead'_...?"

"You've been talking to _Sherlock_, haven't you..."

She was just reaching out, tentatively (Why was this more difficult, why did _he _always have to be the one to initiate? So she'd have an _excuse?_ So it wouldn't be _her _idea, so it wouldn't be her_ fault_…) raising an arm towards his back, when he sighed and his shoulders fell.

Then he rolled over to lie on his back. His eyes were closed.

She was very _small_, curled up and facing him.

"No—yes—how did you—oh nevermind…"

"_Smell like 'dead'?_ No one else talks like that, love, no one else but Sherlock."

"He just came to the morgue, today. _For a case. _I wasn't _visiting _him or anything, I was just—"

"I'm not jealous."

_Jealous. _

(His words, not hers.)

"I didn't say—"

But he was laughing again. Eyes still closed.

"And _I've_never noticed it, the smell…."

"Oh, okay."

"...but then again, I'm kinda _used to it_, don't you think? _The smell of 'dead'_..."

He folded his arms behind his head.

"...oh. Right. So—"

"But why should it _matter_, anyway? It doesn't bother _me._ Does it bother _you?_"

"No...I mean, I'm used to it, too, I suppose..."

She hugged her pillow, closing her eyes.

"Then _why _do you _care?"_

She felt the _wind _and her eyes opened. He was sitting up now, and _glaring _at her with a gaze as sharp as his voice.

She sat up too, facing him, and shook her head.

"…I _don't._ I don't care."

"_Why _bring it up, then?"

"I don't know. I was just wondering, I guess..."

He was still glaring and so she looked down at her hands.

Opening his nostrils wide and closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath of air that caused his chest to rise.

"…Smells _good."_

"What does?"

The question was hesitant, her voice was high (_innocent_, as if she didn't have a suspicion to what the answer might be (because she wanted _him_ to say it. She wanted _him_ to _tell her)_).

He shut his eyes and sighed, smiling and sinking down into the sheets.

"…_the smell of dead."_ He said.

* * *

><p>As always, it was in Geneva, Switzerland, by the Alps, that the most powerful people met for a meeting (Gods on Olympus).<p>

This time 'theme' of this particular 'party' was the continuing worldwide recession.

…_officially_, at least.

_In reality_, the highest ranking members of their respective governments were gathering to discuss the impending nuclear crisis.

(Another day, another nuclear threat.)

That was why Mycroft Holmes was there.

Still, the committee still had to keep up appearances of their stated purpose for assembling and talk economic policy.

And that was why Professor James Moriarty was there.

…_officially,_ at least.

Mycroft watched his 'old college buddy' give a (complicated, yet brilliant and fascinating (if one could understand it and stay awake)) _sermon_ about the world's interconnected economies, exchange rates, and inflation.

If this man controlled all the world's money then there wouldn't _be_ a financial crisis, Mycroft decided.

He wondered why James had retired from his lucrative business career to teach at some no-name university in unappreciated obscurity.

_What a waste. _

…maybe the guy was just _lazy_, Mycroft considered.

James was still incredibly rich, of course, allowing his shareholdings in diversified stock multiply his hundreds of millions.

(Another day, another (million) dollar(s).)

An all had to do is just lecture to his a room of glazed eyes (much like he was doing now).

_Pretty comfortable, actually. _

And then Mycroft didn't wonder anymore.

It was all very beautiful, the mountains surrounding the city and the building's polished stone architecture, but Mycroft preferred to survey the other people in the auditorium.

The hundred or so people sat according to country, countries grouped according to geographic regions (representatives from neighboring warring countries forced to_ tolerate _each other for the time being).

When everyone speaking had given their speeches, the committee then migrated into the next room where the food and small talk would be made (and the pictures would be taken and the people would be quoted, by the eagerly waiting media personnel).

"Good talk." Mycroft complimented, finding James at the front of the now (all but) empty room, packing up his notecards and laptop.

They shook hands and then James reached for his briefcase.

"Nobody listens." James replied, "Nobody _ever _listens."

"Oh yes, that's right." Mycroft remembered, "You _warned_ them. As early as 2006 you warned them….but nobody listened."

James sighed, shrugged and then smiled unenthusiastically.

"I'm used to it." He said.

Mycroft matched his expression.

They two of them stepped down from the shiny-finished wooden stage and began to walk, slowly, the length of the auditorium (postponing (and dreading) their public appearance as long as possible).

"But that's not what this is about, the economy." James continued, "So I'll forgive them for not paying attention. My words, they were only filler, meaningless—"

"Still _true_, though." Mycroft interrupted, "Give yourself _some_ credit."

"True, yes, but pointless all the same." James agreed, "What we really need to discuss is the 'problem'—once the prying eyes and ears are all gone."

"Indeed." Mycroft nodded, "This growing threat, it's…_difficult._"

"Yes, we were young during the Cold War," James recounted, stopping and facing Mycroft who also stopped and face him, "we never truly understood its gravity. We were…we were _used to it._ But I wonder how those in our position then, those who _did_ understand, coped."

"I suppose they just got 'used to it' as well." Mycroft reasoned.

"It's funny what people can get used to." James responded.

He was about to continue to walk when Mycroft spoke.

"It's funny about your name, too."

James halted and turned around to look back at Mycroft, who might have actually been _smirking _(however, 'politely').

"We're not all so lucky as to have such unique names like 'Mycroft'." James stated.

"I assure you it was not so 'lucky' during primary school." Mycroft chuckled lightly, and James joined him.

"Well now, obviously, it is my name that is unlucky." He stated, "I'm the subject of much teasing by my own students…they don't understand that James Moriarty is really a reasonably common name. Of course, it's not the _most_ common. But I did run the numbers. The probability of having the names 'James Moriarty' is only in the thousands—which is actually quite _likely_ in such a populous city as London, let alone in the _entire United Kingdom_. I'm sure there are many other men sharing my struggle ever since that _ridiculous, incompetent_ criminal went to trial…and was _acquitted! _Really, Mr. Holmes, I have faith in the British government anymore. You're simply not doing your jobs…"

James then laughed again, just to make sure Mycroft knew he was joking.

Mycroft smiled.

"I can't speak for the rest of the minor state employees," he replied, "but I am doing my job. And very well, too, _if I do say so myself_. I happened to have _'warned them'_ about your namesake as earlier as three years ago—not that anyone listened. And I've had every single James Moriarty on surveillance ever since I first heard the name."

And then Mycroft _didn't_ laugh, because he _wasn't_ joking.

But James smiled, still.

"…speaking of namesakes," he said, "Don't you share name with that detective involved in the Moriarty criminal case, Sherlock _Holmes?_"

"Yes, unfortunately." Mycroft sighed, "Another unlucky coincidence I've gotten used to."

* * *

><p>And Molly <em>didn't <em>quit within the first five years and she _did_'get used to it'.

It was funny, _so funny, _what someone could get _used to.__  
><em>  
>...like the smell of <em>'dead'<em>...

_...or the bodies...__  
><em>  
>Lined up, burned and maimed on the streets of your home country during its shattering civil war, or lying peacefully as if they were asleep in your home, before the word 'divorce' was dared spoken.<p>

Molly had discovered the old man, one morning, on his own morgue table (which she then 'inherited') _dead. _

He had had a heart attack at sixty-seven, doing what he loved; _his job.__  
><em>  
>She had been the one to find him, to do the post-mortem examination, to write the report...and to donate his body to science (<em>Sherlock Holmes<em>).

She hadn't even _blinked._

It was funny what one could get used to.

_Really, really, funny._

* * *

><p>The next day molly arrived to work to find the morgue empty...all except for a small, gift wrapped with a bow, box resting on the metal table.<p>

She approached it cautiously.

'_To Molly_'

…the card read.

She opened it.

It was a nice (expensive even) bottle of perfume.

'_I thought it smelled almost as nice as you.'_

…the note continued…

'_Love, Sherlock'_

Molly smiled, she couldn't help but smile.

_How adorable. _

Sherlock was_ trying _to 'be nice'.

(And only an attempt by Sherlock to 'be nice' would be this (unwittingly) insulting and yet sweet at the same time.)

He felt bad for what he had done.

...and so had _John Watson_, apparently, since the message was scrawled in _his _handwriting.

* * *

><p>This was <em>silly.<em>

_Admittedly, so._

So silly…_ ridiculous_ even.

Here Molly was, getting dressed in the still steamy bathroom of the hotel room.

The hotel room where she knew Jim Moriarty was reclining on the bed inside, probably flipping through the channels of the high-tech personalized television screen (on which _she_paid the inflated price for every ordered show everyday).

Yes, this was all ridiculous.

The hotel, the costs...and most importantly _him. _

Molly almost couldn't believe it.

It had been a week now that she and he had been _'clandestinely'_ meeting at the hotel and after a couple days of staying the night, rushing home in the morning changing clothes and then running (late) to work Molly had finally decided to just bring some clothes, _just a change_(half her (not very extensive) wardrobe), here for her own convenience and 'peace of mind'.

And then, of course, she had to decide whether to keep them in the drawers or in the closet (she got the drawers and Jim got the closet) and then whether to bring them into the bathroom when she wanted to put them on after her shower or leave them in the main room where she'd have to walk out into wrapped in a towel (complementary of the hotel) and change.

In front of him.

(…_awkward_…)

Molly had chosen first option.

Toweling herself off before pulling on her only slightly baggy khaki pants and a favorite shirt, Molly assessed her reflection in the fogged mirror.

(_Normal._ She looked _normal._ She looked like she always did. Nothing had _changed _(visibly). No one would _know_.)

And after putting on her clothes and make up, Molly noticed her purse sitting on the toilet seat. Inside was the gift from Sherlock (and John Watson).

The perfume.

She picked it up, spraying a few spritzes on.

Exiting the bathroom, (fully dressed (sans shoes) but hair still wet) Molly stepped (and only meant it to be briefly) into the main room where Jim indeed was lying on the bed, flipping channels.

"Well, I'm off to work now..." she told him, pulling on her white labcoat which had been tossed next on top of the dresser the night before (by Jim) and then folded later (by Molly).

Jim, turning to her, scrunched his nose (adorable) and sniffed a couple times.

"...what the hell is that smell?" he demanded.

"What do you mean?" Molly asked, stopping her journey towards the door and glancing back at him.

"That _smell._" Jim repeated, more accusingly, "What _is _it?"

It was the perfume, Molly realized, the gift..._ from Sherlock._

"I don't—"she began (pretending to smell the air and smell nothing) but was interrupted.

"Oh _god_, it's _you,_ isn't it?" Jim groaned, rolling his eyes, "It's_ you_. That _smell. _That putrid—"

"_Putrid?"_Molly exclaimed, with a (nervous) laugh, "It's just a bit of perfume!"

"Take it off." Jim ordered, watching the television screen again.

"What?" Molly cried, "_Why?_It's only—"

_"Take it off."_ Jim insisted, muting the volume with the remote and turning back to Molly.

(Why was she being like this? Sherlock says one thing about her smelling like 'dead' and she starts putting on the perfume! Why did she _care so much_ about what other people thought of her? Why did she care so much what _Sherlock _thought of her…?)

"I can't just _'take it off'_…" Molly reasoned, shifting her weight back and forth from the leg to leg, "its _perfume. _It doesn't _work_like that!'"

"Then go to the bathroom. Take a shower. And _take it off_." Jim told her as if his commands were the obvious course of action.

Then he stared at her expectantly.

She just stood there.

"I…" Molly began again, but again was interrupted.

"NOW!" Jim shouted.

"…I'll be late for work…" Molly complained, but she was already pulling her labcoat back off, folding it and replacing it where it had previously lain.

"_Now,_ Molly." Jim repeated, even though he knew it wasn't necessary.

Molly sighed and trudged back into the bathroom.

She was _used to_ this.

Jim was _rude_, yes, but that was _just him._

She was _used to_ it (used to _him)_.

...maybe she even _liked_ it (him).

* * *

><p>When it was her father she had found, Molly had known that it was coming.<p>

They all had.

They all _knew_, had known for months (almost a year, even), that he was going to _die._

And they had gotten _used to it._

When it was _certain _that he was going to die and there was nothing that anyone (the family, the doctors, god, Molly) could do, they put her father into hospice in their home.

It was there that dissolved into the bed he used to share with his wife (and Molly's mother before her).

Molly's stepmother had to work full-time now, Molly's older brother was somewhere _else_ (away at university and not coming home, even for Christmas) and Molly's little sister was _little_, so young she didn't _understand._

So Molly (who probably should have been in school much more often) cared for her father.

It was only _natural_ that she had been the one to find him, _finally dead. _

She had _expected_ it.

…but she hadn't expected it when it was her mother she had found.

She was _used to_ her mother cooking but never eating, she was _used to_ her mother's long afternoon naps.

She had thought that she was sleeping.

Her mother had looked so _peaceful_ lying there on the couch and so Molly didn't want to disturb her.

It was only when it was past dinner time and Molly had gotten _hungry_ that she went to wake her mother.

But her mother was somewhere _else_ and the _body_ was _cold._

And Molly, she was so little that she didn't _understand. _

And by_ now_, by the time Molly _did _understand, she was _used to it. _

Used to _death_ and _dead. _

And it was funny, so funny what someone could get used to.

* * *

><p><strong>So how's this filler stuff working out for ya'll? <strong>

**Like it or not? **

.**..and do you want shorter updates more frequently or longer ones like every three/four days? **


	31. A Study in Character

**Again, sorry it took so long. **

**And sorry it's kinda short.  
><strong>

**The next one will be longer (and more dramatic too, lol).  
><strong>

**I'm getting Writer's Block again...  
><strong>

**...it's all this 'real life' stuff.  
><strong>

**I'm so tired lol  
><strong>

**Still, I hope you all like it :)  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>Surveillance Report: 0404/2012_

_Background checks on the four new tenants within the area of 221b Baker Street reveal that they are all contract killers from Albania, Australia, Morocco and Russia. _

_As of today, none of them have killed nor participated in any illegal activities. _

_However, they and their activities will remain under constant surveillance, as will codenames 'Messiah' and 'Baptist'._

* * *

><p>It's not like Jim—no, <em>Richard Brooke<em> didn't know how to do his _job. _

_Of course_, those creepy videos hadn't actually been meant for _public viewing_ (especially by children!) and he had made perfectly appropriate and innocuous ones for the 'Storyteller' show (which would never get past its pilot, by the way, because no kids wanted to listen to some random dude telling stories when they could be watching fast-paced potty-potty humor cartoons).

No, those videos had been meant for _Sherlock Holmes_ (and tested on Molly).

So far, none of them _(none of them!) _were good enough.

None of them were _perfect._

But Jim (Jim because Richard Brooke made movies for children's television but Jim Moriarty made movies for Sherlock Holmes) never gave up.

Everyday in the Mountford Talent Agency's studio, he kept recording video after video; fairytale after fairytale…

…and _still_, he couldn't find the one that would work as an allegory for his 'story' with Sherlock.

(It needed not only the_ perfect_ _plot_, but the _perfect characters_ to equal those in his real life 'fairytale'. _Impossible to find_. )

And so, Jim wrote his own.

(…or _tried_ to, at least, because writing was _hard!_)

It took a couple drafts, but finally Jim had his perfect story.

'_The Tale of Sir Boast-a-Lot and All His Many Problems'_

_Once upon a time there was a knight, brave and brilliant, who solved problems. _

_He solved so many problems for so many people in the kingdom that he made the other knights look like they were stupid and couldn't solve any problems at all. _

_This was a problem. _

_This was a problem not only for those now embarrassed other knights, but also for Sir Boast-a-Lot the brave and brilliant knight who could actually solve problems. _

_But Sir Boast-a-Lot couldn't solve this problem. _

_However, the other knights could. _

_And so the other knights went to the king and lied to the king, calling Sir Boast-a-Lot a liar. _

_And the king didn't know who to believe. _

_And this was a problem._

_The king had no choice but to send the other knights to arrest Sir Boast-a-Lot and punish him. _

_The other knights had no problem with this. _

_They captured Sir Boast-a-Lot and marched him through the kingdom for everyone to see, parading him next to all the common criminals he had once solved the problems caused by. _

_And then they tied him down to a stone where the vultures came and ate him alive. _

_After that, Sir Boast-a-Lot wasn't a problem anymore. _

_In fact, he had no more problems at all. _

And Jim _knew _Sherlock would just _love_ it.

All he had to do now was adapt his little fairytale for the (small) screen and everything would be _perfect._

* * *

><p>Molly got off the elevator onto one of the higher floors at the hospital and into a wide maze of cubicles, rather than halls operating rooms.<p>

The IT department.

Phones were ringing and being answered, fingers were tapping on keyboards like racing heartbeats.

Last time Molly's work-computer had broken down (about two years ago) she had just asked Jim (from IT) to fix it and then the problem had been solved.

Obviously, that wasn't going to happen today (and, _of course_, it had to be_ today_ that her computer had crashed; today just when she was trying to log all the data she had collected from her 'patients' and had neglected to put in before because she had been _'busy'_ elsewhere) and so Molly was here.

Now, she approached the man and woman who had rolled their chairs out of their respective cubicles to chat by the divider.

"…um…excuse me…?" Molly began.

The two both turned, looked up at her through their glasses, and then looked back at each other…

And _grinned._

"…oh. my. god. is _that_…"

"It _is. _Oh my god, it _is!" _

They turned back to stare up at Molly from their chairs, lenses glinting.

"_You're _that girl from the morgue." The man stated, "_You_ went out with that nerdy bloke who used to work here…_the one that turned out to be some big criminal mastermind—" _

"And _gay._" The woman added, giggling, "_I knew _he was gay. From the moment I saw him I could just tell-"

"No, you couldn't." the man scoffed, rolling his eyes.

The two looked back at each other again, Molly could tell that this _bickering _(like an old married couple (as if they were the only two people in the room (world))) was _normal_ for them.

Inching backwards away from them as they were distracted by each other's interruptions, Molly held in a gasp.

She hadn't thought anyone would remember a _nobody_ like 'Jim from IT'.

_She hadn't thought anyone would remember a nobody like her…_

"Yes, I could." The woman insisted, "_I could!_ It was _so obvious!_ The guy did his eyebrows for Christ's sake, _his eyebrows! _There's no other explanation for that arch, it_ can't_ be natural…they're thinner than mine! _That's_ how I knew he _had _to be gay! I don't know why _she _couldn't tell…"

"Oh, give her a break." The man groaned, "He had everybody fooled. He's probably a pretty good actor. I mean it's not like you could tell that Jim guy was, you know, a _killer_…and _that_ would've actually meant something. It's not like your _Sherlock Holmes."_

"Oh yeah! Sherlock Holmes!" The woman remembered, "You know him too, don't you? Comes by the morgue, doesn't he? How is he anyway…

_(She stopped talking when she realized that Molly was gone.)_

…where'd she run off to?"

"Dunno…" the man replied, "She was here just a second ago, wasn't she?...I wonder what she needed…"

The two shared a shrug and a confused glance before turning away from each other and rolling back into their respective cubicles.

* * *

><p><em>I saw the recording. <em>

'_Get Sherlock'_

_Is that the message? _

_Does that mean Sherlock has the code? _

…_isn't he your enemy? Why would you give it to him? _

_**####**_

_Mr. M, thank you for organizing that prison break._

_But there was one problem. _

_Nobody actually got out…including me. _

_Can you fix that? _

_(PS: please hurry, there are some new guys in here that don't seem to like me very much.)_

**####**

_Dear Mr. Moriarty, _

_We just stole this phone off your client…_

…_when we killed him. _

_Sorry about that. _

_At first I was angered that your plans left me imprisoned …but now I thank you because it has enabled me to meet some nice fellows who happen to have the exact same problem I do. _

_You. _

_And you know who we are. _

_We're all cellmates now, too, isn't that such a happy coincidence? And we've formed out our own little 'prison gang'. A 'secret society' of sorts…_

_We dine together at meal times, spot each other during work-out time and even study together in the education program. _

_We're learning German. _

_(Not much hope for the banished prince, but the bank-robber's of respectable intelligence enough.) _

'_Get Sherlock' ? _

_No thanks. _

_We feel that 'Get Moriarty' will be a much more satisfying thing to do. _

_And when we get out of here… _

_(and we will get out of here, we do have an inside man, as you know) _

…_we're going to get you, Mr. Moriarty. _

_But until then, best wishes and good luck. _

_Sincerely, _

_The Rachen Men _

_(Because 'The Avengers' is already taken.) _

_**####**_

_Rich—_

_We've found you a role on some new medical drama._

_Come by the agency for more info. _

_And btw, did you ever notice that you look a little bit like that James Moriarty guy who went to trial a couple weeks back?_

_I think we can work with that, capitalize on all that publicity. _

_I'm contacting the major crimes shows looking for guest stars to play criminals. _

—_Mountford Agency _

**####**

_I stationed one of my men near Sherlock Holmes's residence but it seems that at least two other rival gangs have stationed their people there as well. _

_I thought you promised ME the code. _

_I'm not going to pay you if I have to share it. _

_**####**_

_You just tried to contact my employer. _

_He is no longer accepting your calls and texts. _

_They will not go through so you can stop now. He is very busy. _

_You're name has already ruined his reputation, you've done enough. _

_Leave him alone or I WILL go through with his orders to kill you. _

_**####**_

_Jim_

_How did you fix my computer at work last time? Its done that blue screen thingy again and now it won't start up! What should I do? _

_Thanks, _

_Molly 3_

* * *

><p>Jim still had his employee ID from the few months he had worked at St. Bartholomew's back in 2010.<p>

It proved quite convenient whenever he wanted to visit the hospital, for business or _personal_ reasons.

Still, now that he had been on trial (and, more importantly, on the news) it was a lot more difficult to go _anywhere _without being recognized.

Normally, most people who saw him suddenly had an extreme desire to cross the street or turn around and walk right back the way they had come _(both were correct)…_

…but every so often a '_fan' _(and there were only two types of fans (and guess which one they were)) would approach him.

Then they would either declare (squeal) their admiration (_adorable_) or try (and fail) to say something clever (_annoying_), hoping to pique his_ interest_ and get 'spirited away' on some _dangerous, exciting adventure_ out of the boringness of their stupid and normal lives.

Needless to say, it never worked.

(And Jim was left with two options; kill the fan or walk away laughing. He chose the latter because although Jim Moriarty was a killer, Richard Brooke was an actor and Jim Moriarty _was_ Richard Brooke now.)

So now, as Jim journeyed through the hospital towards the morgue (down the hall and the stairs) he disguised himself in a labcoat and surgical-mask (he had considered dressing up like a sexy nurse… but then remembered dear Richie was supposed to be straight. _Oh well._ There's always next time…).

He strolled into Molly's workroom where instead of a body on the table (_Damn it._ He had hoped to see some blood and guts, _it had been such a long time…)_ a desktop computer (unplugged from the wall) was having its post-mortem examination done by a frustrated Molly Hooper.

"Miss Hooper." Jim greeted her, official-sounding voice slightly muffled by the mask, "IT calling."

Molly looked up from the disassembled electronics at him, eyes instantly widening.

"Jim! Oh My god!" She squeaked, "What are you doing here?"

"…you said your computer broke down." Jim said, pulling off the mask, "I thought you wanted me to fix it…"

"No—you—I— I just wanted you tell me how!" Molly exclaimed, running around the metal table (and Jim) to the door, peering outside in both directions, and then slamming it shut after she had made sure nobody had _seen_, "…You can't be here."

"Why not?" Jim asked in (mock) disbelief, (genuinely) taken aback.

"_Because,_" Molly began, "Because you—_well you know exactly why!" _

"No I don't." Jim shook his head, shrugging.

Molly stepped around him and went back over to the table. Jim followed her, standing across from her on the other side.

"You can't be here." Molly repeated, glancing down at and playing with the unconnected computer-mouse, "What if Lestrade were to walk in right now? _What if Sherlock…_You just can't be here."

Jim snorted.

"…And it isn't funny!" She snapped, looking up and glaring at him, "This isn't a game! We could both get—get…_in trouble_..."

(_'in trouble' _because she didn't want to say: _'arrested and then put in jail. For good this time and never able to see each other again'_.)

In her _anger_, Molly had raised her first.

The computer-mouse was still clenched between her fingers, its wire dangling like a tail.

Jim caught her wrist, leaning down and forwards across the table to kiss her on the back of the hand.

"That's the _mouse,_ Molly." His lips whispered against her skin, "I don't think _that's_ the _problem…"_

After a few moments of staring into the intense (insane) eyes staring up at her (hypnotizing her), Molly closed her eyes, shaking her head and finally was able to speak.

"…you can't be here." She said again.

"Fine, then." Jim replied, releasing her hand sharply, "I was _just_ trying to _help._ But if you're so ashamed of me, I'll leave. Wouldn't want to _ruin your reputation…"_

He spun on his heels and began to stomp away in the exaggerated manner a girlfriend would when she was mad at her boyfriend (and it would have been _perfect_ if he had gone with the nurse outfit) towards the door.

And Molly knew he was faking it (_of course,_ he was faking it, he was only just pretending) but still she couldn't help but feel bad (couldn't help but feel her annoyance and fear dissolve into guilt…and was that _pity?_).

She didn't want to '_hurt his feelings'_…even his_ fake_ ones.

"Wait." She called after him, "…You can stay. Since you're here anyway, you can stay…"

He turned around, grin already on his face. He had stopped before she had spoken.

"Oh, _goodie._" Jim smirked, walking back to her, "And I promise I'll be quiet, too. _Nobody'll even know I'm here_…That's what you _want,_ right? You don't _care_ what I do, what _we _do, _hell_, you don't even care what _you_ do, really…_just so long as no one knows about it._"

Jim was_ right_—and they both knew it.

(_In fact,_ Jim had probably ignored her text and then come here just so he could show her that he knew what she was thinking.)

But Molly certainlywasn't going to _acknowledge_ it.

"…You can stay…" she stated, "…but only if you fix my computer. It's _why you're here_… _isn't it?"_

Molly was _wrong_—and they both knew it.

(_In fact,_ fixing her computer was probably the last purpose for Jim's visit to the hospital.)

No, Molly wasn't going to acknowledge _it_ (that Jim was right)…

…she was going to _show him_ that _she _knew what_ he_ was thinking.

(And Jim certainly wasn't going to acknowledge _that._)

"That's right."Jim smiled, moving to the metal table where the computer body lay disassembled, "It's my _job, _is it not?_ Fixing_ things, fixing _problems_…and _you_, Miss Hooper, _do need my help_."

* * *

><p><em>Sir, there has been an increase of graffiti in the city, recently. <em>

_**####**_

_Urban street 'art' has not been my concern since I made those unfounded vandalism charges against 'Baptist' disappear two years ago. _

_**####**_

_I'm sure this particular will concern you, sir. _

_I'm attaching the photos we've collected. _

_**####**_

_IOU?_

_Where have I seen that before? _

_**####**_

_It's not a new gang marking territory, sir, but it has been spray-painted in areas 'Messiah' frequents. _

**####**

_By who?_

_**####**_

_We were unable to find an image of the person's face. He managed to obscure it from all cameras. _

**####**

_A professional then. _

**####**

_The code breakers are already analyzing the letters. _

_I've already excluded Arabic numerals because although 'I' and 'O' could represent the numbers '1' and '0' there is no equivalent for 'U'. _

_That is also true in Roman numerals, however there is a 'V' which is close. _

_**####**_

'_U' is a letter of German origin. _

_It could be some sort of Germanic code. _

_**####**_

_I'll look into that, sir. _

_Do you think that 'Devil' could be responsible for this graffiti? _

_Or is this all just a coincidence? _

**####**

_There is no such thing as a coincidence. _

_He most likely is involved. _

_**####**_

_Then this could be related to the keycode he used for his 'miracles'. _

_**####**_

_It probably is. _

**####**

_I also considered Binary code. Sequences of '1' and '0' represent different words and numbers. _

**####**

_But there is no 'U' character in Binary code. _

**####**

_I know, sir, but I understand computers and technology very well. _

_For a code so powerful it can access anything, two numbers '1' and '0' would not be enough._

_It would need a third digit. _

_**####**_

_Like a 'U', perhaps. _

_Interesting idea. _

**####**

_Thank you, sir._

* * *

><p>Lestrade entered his office at Scotland Yard sweating and disheveled.<p>

Sally and Anderson (who had been waiting) turned to look at him (Sally sitting in his chair as if it was her own and Anderson also making himself quite 'at home' leaning against his desk), complaining and laughing bitterly about something (Sherlock Holmes).

"Sir, what happened to you?" Sally asked.

And Lestrade couldn't tell whether it was concerned surprise or concealed laughter at his appearance on her face and in her voice.

Probably both.

"I was chasing a suspect." Lestrade explained, walking behind his desk, "…up."

Sally (_not_ rolling her eyes or groaning) stood up so Lestrade could flop down into his chair, close his eyes and take a deep breath.

"Who, sir?" Anderson inquired, straightening and turning to look at his boss, "Where is he?"

"…_he got away."_ Lestrade mumbled, not yet opening his eyes and swiveling slightly away from his employees.

"Really, sir?" Sally couldn't help but smile.

"It's been a long day!" Lestrade defended, "I had just gotten back from the case with Sherlock so I was already tired…"

"So this wasn't for that case, then?" Anderson questioned.

"No, no Sherlock sorted that one out quick enough." Lestrade dismissed (to which Sally and Anderson _did _roll their eyes and groan), "…this was when I was leaving Baker Street and I saw some guy spraying graffiti on a wall. _In broad daylight!..._And so I chased him. I chased him for at least twenty minutes, I did, but the man was fast. Like track star fast. And he knew the city like it was his own backyard! Ran it like and maze, twists and turns into alleys and so he got away."

"And you don't know who he was?" Anderson clarified.

"No." Lestrade shook his head, "He was wearing a hoodie. I never saw his face…but I would have caught him. I would have caught him if I had just—"

"Been a bit younger?" Sally suggested.

Now Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"I was going to say had a second cup of coffee." He finished, "But yes. I suppose being younger would've helped too…"

"Oh, so you finally _admit _it!" Sally exclaimed, "The great Detective Inspector Lestrade is 'losing his touch'!"

"No, I am _not_." Lestrade countered, sitting up his chair, "I'm just…having an 'offday'."

"Sure you are, sir." Anderson 'agreed', grinning.

"Yeah and graffiti artists _are _notoriously difficult to catch." Sally added, smirking "Right up there with bank-robbers and serial killers."

"Hey, if I remember right I just caught somebody who's both!" Lestrade recalled.

"_We _caught him, sir, and if _I_ remember right," Sally corrected, "Moriarty got acquitted. It was _real victory_ for Scotland Yard."

Lestrade sighed defeatedly, sinking into his chair as he rested an elbow on the desk.

"I can't believe that jury." He muttered, "I know they were fixed. Somehow Moriarty must've got to them. _There's no other explanation_…and he didn't even _take_ anything from the bank _or_ the tower! It's like he did all that just to make us at the Yard look bad!"

Anderson and Sally nodded, also sighing.

"Yeah and it worked too, god damn him." Anderson offered, "…but it's not like it's your fault, sir."

He (awkwardly) patted Lestrade on the shoulder.

Lestrade was about to say something when Sally interjected again.

"But it's not like _Sherlock Holmes_ hasn't been making us 'look bad' either." She snapped, "He's made us all seem incompetent solving every case for us and so fast, the freak—"

"Not now, Donovan." Lestrade groaned, head in hands, not wanting to hear her _'Say No to Sherlock Holmes'_ speech again.

"I'm just saying." She sniffed, folding her arms.

"Well _don't."_ Lestrade warned and then added, "…and don't be spreading it around that that vandal got away from me, either, it'll only hurt the Yard's image even worse."

"I won't—I wouldn't—I'd never!" Sally stammered, (futilely for even she knew that she had the reputation of a _gossip _within the police force (being, after all, 'the gossip' and so having heard every rumor)).

"…_but then again," _Lestrade smiled, sitting up and staring at both her and Anderson in turn, "…does it even _matter_ what anyone thinks of us? As a whole _or _individually? That's all just 'reputation' and there are so many people who _aren't _who they_ pretend _to be, who aren't who the world _sees_ them as…And maybe that doesn't matter at all because that's _not the truth_. Maybe what matters is what we do when no one's looking, _who we really are_. Maybe _that's_ what counts."

Sally and Anderson exchanged a glance and then turned back to their boss who gave them _The Look._

('The Look' being the look he used on suspects when he knew that they were guilty and that it was only a matter of time before they finally confessed.)

And then they_ knew _that Lestrade _knew _but that none of them were going to _acknowledge_ this.

"…it's called _character,_ and it's _always _the _truth._" Lestrade continued, "_Anything and anyone_ can compromise a man's_ reputation_…but only _he_ can compromise his character."

* * *

><p><em>Surveillance Report: 0404/2012_

_Codenames 'Mouse' and 'Spider' continue to dance around their own mutually parasitic (symbiotic?) relationship, following all their own rules (make proper excuses, lie (to the word, to each other, to themselves)). _

_And sometimes they almost fight but then 'Mouse' surrenders just as 'Spider' is about to strike because she's afraid (not of 'Spider' but of not having 'Spider')…_

…_and 'Spider' is glad because he never wanted to 'Mouse' in the first place but still would because that was who he was (or at least that was who people thought saw him as (who he wanted them to see him as)). _

_And one night 'Spider' said "what if we're all just characters in a story and there's some higher power, some god, controlling us and we've got no choice but to do what we do?"._

_And 'Mouse' said, "That's not true. That's just an excuse." _

_And then both said nothing because they didn't need to._

* * *

><p><strong>No, the last one wasn't a <em>real<em> surveillance report (not that any of this is 'real' and they're not just characters in a story doing whatever I (higher power) make them do).  
><strong>

**And the Bibical stuff...a bit contrived, I know...****  
><strong>

**...but the music from 'Reichenbach' (that song, you know the one I'm talking about with the 'son of man who you gone run to') and the whole 'dying' but _not_ dying made me think _Jesus. _****And John's already got the name so that was easy...**  
><em><br>_(**Plus, ****Jesus_ was_ a social outcast in his , and a teacher (of religion, but still) so he was smart and worked miracles.) **

**So I went with it lol. **

**(Hey, I needed codenames!)  
><strong>

**And no, Molly's not 'Mary Magdelene' (the actualy story isn't anything like that Lady Gaga song) and Jim wouldn't be 'Judas' either. He was never on Sherlock's side. **

**Jim is definately 'the devil' and as for Molly...  
><strong>

**... a 'Judas', perhaps?**

**(and didn't the bible say something like 'and then the devil possessed Judas' (horribly remembered paraphrase...remind me to look that up) which works.)  
><strong>

**But not_ yet._****_  
><em>**

**_Definately_ not yet...and maybe _not at all._  
><strong>

**(Haven't decided yet lol-preferences, anyone?)****  
><strong>

**And, of course, Scotland Yard is the Roman soldiers. **

**Lestrade is kinda like Peter...or whoever it was that denied Jesus three times (too tired to ask Wikipedia at 2:39 AM lol) out of fear and social pressure.  
><strong>

**lol  
><strong>

**...I've gone too far with this again, haven't I? ****  
><strong>

**I need to cool it with the metaphors.  
><strong>

**lol  
><strong>

**Reviews, thoughts, suggestions (flattery)? ****  
><strong>


	32. Novels and Manners

**...Well...**

**...I said it would get more 'dramatic'...and it did (kinda)...  
><strong>

**...but people had been requesting FLUFF!  
><strong>

**And so...  
><strong>

**...I _tried. _  
><strong>

**Lemme know if I succeeded or not.  
><strong>

**So far this chapter is an expiremental (and very long) one for me.  
><strong>

**I see it as, basically, 'Jim and Molly Attempt to be Normal'...THE MOVIE!****  
><strong>

**(Because it is so long...)****  
><strong>

**Or, Jim and Molly the Family Soap Opera!  
><strong>

**No! Don't run away!  
><strong>

**It's just a visit to the family. Nothing tooooo cheesy. :)  
><strong>

**And sadly, it gets kinda..._not fluffy..._sometimes...(not too much though).  
><strong>

**...but by the end it all works out happily and I'd say it gets pretty damn fluffy so...  
><strong>

**...hmm...  
><strong>

**...idk...  
><strong>

**I really, really, hope you guys like it because I've been writing for days lol trying to get this right!  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Molly had just stopped into her flat briefly during her lunchbreak to feed Toby (who had been feeling <em>neglected <em>lately but it's not as if she could smuggle a cat into a hotel…_or could she?)_ put down her bag and keys on the counter, when the phone range.

The landline.

_(Why did she even still have one of these?)_

Normally, Molly didn't get many phone calls especially to her home-phone and so her first thought when she heard the ring was that someone had died.

"…Hello?" she answered, tentatively, phone to her ear.

"Hey, Molly! I finally got you!"

It was her sister.

_Damn it. _

"Hi, Beth."

"I've been calling and calling all day!"

"You could have just called my mobile…"

"I _did._ Apparently your number's been disconnected—"

"Oh yeah. I had to get it changed."

"Why?"

"Well there was this guy…"

"Ooh! A _guy!_ Tell me more!"

"There's nothing_ to _tell, really…he just wouldn't stop calling and texting. So I changed my number. That's it."

"Oh, Molly, whenever someone gets interested, you run away…why do you do that to yourself?"

"I—"

"At least tell me he was _ugly_—"

"No."

"Or _fat_—"

"He isn't—wasn't…well I don't know what he is now since I'm not seeing him anymore—"

"Or something, _anything!_ Give me some reason why you broke it off if he wasn't fat or ugly. Tell me he was _something."_

"…_he sure is 'something', alright…" _

"What was that?"

"Nothing—no it's just…it just wasn't working out…"

"Oh…well…_I see_…Any new prospects?"

"Well…"

"You're thirty-two and still single, Molly! Do you really think it's the time to be picky?"

"I have to go. I just came home for lunch. I've got to go back to work now—"

"And now you're going home for lunch! Stop being such a spinster! You're working too much! You need to go out more and meet people and have fun and—"

"Goodbye, Beth."

"_Wait!" _

"…What is it?"

"The reason I called is we've bought a new place! A great four bedroom out in the suburbs!..._which you would have known_ if you hadn't, you know, _changed your number and 'forgotten' to tell me."_

"That's really nice. I'm sure you and Thomas'll be happy there. How is he, by the way, and Matthew, too? How are they?"

"They're fine. They're really good…_which you would know—"_

"_I know, I know!_ I'm sorry I haven't kept in touch, it's just I've been busy—"

"'_Busy'?_ Busy, Molly, really? It's been _a year!"_

"_Two,_ actually…maybe even a little more."

"_Exactly!_ That's what I'm trying to say!"

"_I know_, Beth, and _I'm sorry_. I'm sorry."

"No. Don't be. Don't be sorry…just come and visit us."

"I—"

"It's almost Easter and I know even _you_ don't work on Easter—"

"_Well—"_

"No, Molly. No excuses. No sorries. Just come and visit your sister. The day after Easter come by the new place and see me."

"…Fine. Alright. I'll come, I'll visit you…now, what's your new address?"

* * *

><p>After the almost an <em>hour<em> long drive, he taxi pulled up in front of the house.

It was tall and wide, larger than the average house, with a green lawn and even some full-grown flowers (probably put there by the realtor to attract buyers). There was an expensive-looking car in the driveway too, all _new and shiny_ like the house.

Upper-middle class in a recession.

Molly closed her eyes from the window view and took a deep breath.

She was_ not _going to be judgmental and jealous.

She was going to be _happy_ for her sister (and her sister's rich husband).

Because Molly _loved_ her sister…

…which was why she was going to subject her (and her rich husband) to Jim Moriarty.

The cab was stalling, motor (and meter) still running, in front of the house and Molly turned away from the window towards Jim would was gazing past her at the house.

(And _he_ seemed to be pretty happy for her sister, from the grin on his face.)

"They're going to recognize you." Molly panicked, "There's no way they wouldn't recognize you."

"They _won't._" Jim dismissed, eyes now focusing on Molly instead of out the window, "…I'm in _disguise."_

_Yeah. _

Because being too lazy to shave for a few days and putting on some drugstore reading glasses _definitely_ constituted being 'in disguise'.

"But what if they do?" Molly worried.

"What if they do?" Jim shrugged, "So what?"

" '_So what'?"_ Molly exclaimed, "What do you mean _'so what'_? So what, they'll know I've been, um… '_spending time with'_ a criminal! They'll think _I'm_ some kind of criminal—"

"Hey, at least they won't think you're a _lonely old maid_ who likes cats a little _too much_." Jim reasoned, "_Besides_, I was _acquitted._ So _technically_ I'm not a criminal—"

"Let's just go and get this over with." Molly resolved, reaching into her purse and then handing the taxi driver the fare (Jim had turned out his empty pockets, shrugging apologetically).

She stepped out of the cab, Jim following her (and of course expecting her to hold the door open for him like a chauffer).

They headed down the (fake cobblestone) path towards the nice house, past the driveway where the nice car was parked.

Jim stopped to admire it (or maybe just his own reflection (and disguise) in the reflection created by its tinted windows).

Molly, noticing this after she was a couple feet away, hurried back to him, grabbed his hand and then pulled him along towards their intended destination.

"I swear to god, Jim…" Molly muttered, tugging Jim behind her, "If you do _anything_, anything _crazy _or _illegal _or… _bad,_ I'll, I promise you I'll—"

"Is that a _threat_, Molly?" Jim interrupted, stopping again, "Because I _love_ it when you make threats. It's just so… _adorable._"

Molly turned back to look at him smirking, opened her mouth as if she was going to say something but then closed it and turned back forwards, continuing ahead.

"…come on…" she said, shaking her head to herself, "…just—come on…"

She already regretted letting Jim talk her into letting Jim accompany her.

…Well it was _his _idea to go so whatever trouble he caused was _his_ fault, _not _hers.

_Yes. _

(Not her fault. Not her fault. Not her fault.)

_Not her fault at all. _

They climbed the stairs to the front door and then Molly knocked before Jim saw the doorbell and pushed it.

After around thirty seconds, Jim was already pressing it again and again, the bell now ringing without rest.

"Stop it!" Molly exclaimed, snatching his hand and pulling it away.

Jim grinned.

"…what are you gonna do to me if I don't?" he asked, "Tell me. I want you to threaten me again."

Molly groaned, releasing his hand.

Instantly, it was hovering above the doorbell again.

"Don't!" Molly warned, "…She must've heard it already the _first hundred times_. I'm sure she's coming."

"Yes, but women always take so long to—"

Molly gave Jim the closest thing to a _'death glare'_, silencing him just as the door finally opened.

"Sorry, I was in the back…" Beth apologized with a smile, leaning forwards to hug her older sister, "Molly, it's been so long!..._and who's this?" _

Beth stood just inside the house, examining the unfamiliar man who had arrived with her sister.

Nice clothing (dress shirt and shoes, slacks) but needed a shave.

_Well, good enough... _

…Especially for _Molly_ (who's never really had much _luck_ and whose _biological clock_ had to be _ticking_ away).

Jim stood just outside the house, examining the younger sister that Molly really hadn't wanted to visit.

Oh, she was _pretty!_

Blonde hair (naturally honey, but bleached lighter), green eyes, soft pink blush, lipstick and nail polish.

Curvier too (her hips were wider than Molly's, but not _too_ wide, so he had only had_ one_ child…and not that recently either because she was far too in shape) this sister wasn't a 'Plain Jane' like Molly—_and she knew it,_ _too._

No wonder Molly resented her.

…_uh oh. _

Molly had caught Jim staring at her sister.

(_Oh,_ Molly darling, it was _so not like that_. Jim wasn't _attracted _to women and even if he_ was_ he 'perfect' girls like 'trophy'_ certainly_ wouldn't be his _type_…

(no, his 'type' would be the nervous little _trainwrecks_ with the 'problems' to 'solve' and the morals to destroy (morals _being_ the 'problem').The ones like tightly-wound spools of thread that he'd slowly _unravel _and then _tangle up_ again like a cat playing with a ball of yarn.)

…_that is _if he _was _attracted to women. Which he was most certainly _not._)

Time to say something—

"Hi there, I'm Bethany!" Molly's sister beat him to it, extending a hand to shake, "Nice to meet you, uh…"

"Jim Moriarty." Jim greeted, shaking her hand.

And Molly's eyes widened as she held in her gasp.

"_He's joking!" _she declared desperate, looking back and forth between Beth and Jim, " He's _not_—_You're _not—Tell her you're joking! Tell her—"

"Honey, calm down, calm down!" Jim chuckled, letting go of Beth's handshake to pat Molly on the shoulder, he then turned back to Beth, "It's just this little joke I've been making ever since 'the trial of the century' or whatever they call it. Cause somebody said I looked sort of like him."

"Oh, I never pay attention to that court stuff." Beth laughed.

"But you're husbands a lawyer…" Molly reminded.

"I _know._" Beth groaned exaggeratedly, still smiling, "And I got tired of it after the first six months! It's so boring—"

"I heard that!"

They heard Beth's husband shout from inside and soon he was in he doorway standing next to his wife.

(...ooh, and he was _pretty_, too! Dirty blond and blue eyed. Also, he was older than both Jim and Molly.)

"Hey there, Molly, nice to see you again!" He smiled and it was genuine as it was polite (and he was _supposed_ to be a _lawyer_! Jim was _disappointed_ …), "…And nice to meet you, too, Mr. _um…_—I'm assuming you're not _actually_ James Moriarty, 'consultant criminal', despite the resemblance."

"As far as you know..." Jim winked, "Jim Marlowe. Nice to meet you both."

Molly sighed.

(Jim _really_ couldn't be more_ creative_ than to use the same first name and the same initials?)

This was_ definitely_ a bad idea, bringing him here.

(But it was_ his_ idea, not hers.)

"Oh, Marlow!" Thomas considered, "Like in Conrad's 'Heart of Darkness'."

"So some people_ do_ still _read_." Jim replied, "But _no_…it's _Marlowe_-with an _'e'_. Like the Shakespeare contemporary. Which is fitting because I'm much more a storyteller than a character…"

(_Of course,_ Jim had used the same first name! If he _hadn't_ Molly would have probably slipped up and called him 'Jim', anyway, so why risk it? He was actually 'playing it_ safe'_ for her. She should be _thanking _him not _glowering_ at him!)

"Ah, I see..." Thomas nodded, "But, as I'm sure you know, 'Marlow'—_without an 'e'_—from 'Heart of Darkness' was only the most _thinly-disguised_ of self-inserts. The work was all but _autobiographical _about Joseph Conrad's travels in the Belgian Congo! So, you see, it _is _possible to be_ both_ the storyteller _and_ the character in your own story."

"Oh, I like you." Jim grinned, "Mr.—"

"Please, call me Thomas." Thomas introduced himself, shaking Jim's hand.

Their hands shook for a long time which left Molly and Beth just standing there _awkwardly_ as they had throughout the entire exchange, eyes shifting between their 'men' and each other.

Molly didn't even want to imagine what Jim was probably imagining involving his new 'friend' that he 'liked'.

"…Should we, uh…go inside?" Molly suggested (to her sister as 'the boys' were _still_ talking).

"Oh! Right!" Beth exclaimed, "Please, come in, come in!"

She removed herself (and Thomas) from the doorway so that Molly and Jim could enter.

"Yes, come in, please!" Thomas added, snapping himself out of the conversation, "I'm sorry I didn't invite you in sooner, what was I thinking…"

"It's alright." Molly smiled, politely.

(And Jim was really getting tired of all this 'being polite' thing.)

Molly and Jim followed Beth and Thomas into a spacious living room that looked even larger because it was mostly empty, aside from a couch, two arm chairs, a coffee table and some cardboard boxes stacked on the hardwood floors.

There were no curtains on the windows yet and even though no lamps were plugged in yet, the room was well lit by the early afternoon sunlight.

"As you can see, we're still unpacking…" Thomas explained.

"Yes." Beth agreed and then grinned _deviously _(!), "And since you and Thomas seem to be _such good friends_ now, Jim…you can help him with the table in the other room while Molly and I unpack in here."

"Oh, what a _kind _sister you have, Molly..." Jim commented, "…inviting us all the way down here to be her free labour."

"Well, I'm happy to help my baby sister." Molly stated, still smiling even when she added, "…I always _try_."

"Thank you." Beth stated, still smiling even when she added, "And you _do_ always try _so hard_."

And they locked eyes for a brief moment, both _still smiling. _

Thomas and Jim watched this, their eyes meeting for a brief moment, as well, as they _still smiled_, too, both just standing there _awkwardly._

"…Okay." Thomas began, clapping his hands once, breaking the awkward silence, "Shall we get started or are we going to wait for the third extra helper?"

"A third helper?" Molly inquired, looking away from her sister towards her brother-in-law.

"Paul's coming." Beth declared, causing Molly to turn back towards her.

"Oh." Molly replied, slightly surprised, "When?"

"He's on his way." Beth told her, "He'll be here soon."

"…oh, okay." Molly said, raising an eyebrow just barely (thinking only sister would see), "So we'll wait?"

"No." Beth decided, shaking her head, "We can start without him."

"Alright, then." Thomas smiled (less sincerely and more forced to break the tension), "Let's get to it…"

He started towards the hall that must have led to the dinning room, passing his wife whom he kissed on the cheek before continuing out of.

Jim followed him, mimicking his movements exactly (except for the kiss on the cheek that went to Molly instead of Beth).

Molly and Beth watched Jim and Thomas leave the room.

Molly knew that it probably wasn't the best idea to not be supervising Jim herself the entire time he was at her sister's home…

…but it wasn't _her_ idea, it was Beth's, actually. And so whatever damage Jim might cause to the table, or to the new house (or to the husband) was _her_ fault, _not_ Molly's.

Still, Molly didn't even want to be alone with her sister that much _either. _

_Oh well, she had no choice…_

"So, which first?" Molly turned to Beth and asked, gesturing to the stacks of boxes and smiling.

"Hmmm…how about this one." Beth smiled, choosing a box, bending over and beginning to open it.

* * *

><p>"Yeah, we've done the whole upstairs. We did Matthew's room first, just like it was at the old place, so he wouldn't feel uncomfortable the first night. And then we did ours. Now even the guest room's set up, which mum's been staying in this past couple days…. and I know Thomas is just so—"<p>

"_Happy _about. Your mother's a lovely woman. I'm glad she's been with us. You know that, dear."

"I know, I know, Tom, I'm just teasing!"

Jim and Molly listened as Thomas and Beth called back and forth to each other from different rooms as the men and women worked on their respective tasks.

Then Jim and Thomas heard the front door open and two pairs of footsteps enter the home.

The first were small feet, pounding and squeaking (trainers) as they ran across the wood into the living room.

A child.

_Matthew._

The next, following at a pace not only slower than the first pair but slower than average (an older person) with heels (a female) that clicked against the floor.

Thomas's mother-in-law.

Beth's mother.

Molly's stepmother.

"Hi, Virginia."

Jim heard Molly's voice speak first, which meant that Beth was probably busy hugging Matthew.

_Virginia. _

She had a name.

"Hi, Virginia." Molly greeted, setting down the lamp she had picked up back into the cardboard box amongst the styrofoam packaging and approaching her stepmother.

"Hi, Molly." Virginia smiled, she was blonde like her daughter but kept it its natural (and now graying) shade, "Nice to see you again!"

They hugged _(—sort of—)._

(—It was much shorter and looser than the long embrace Beth and her son Matthew were still having as she bent down to his eye-level.)

"Where's Uncle Paul?" Matthew asked his mother when she released him and stood back up.

"He's not here yet." Beth answered, then gesturing to her sister "…but Aunt Molly is."

"Who's _she?_" Matthew questioned in a tone that was forgivable only because of his age, looking up at Molly as if she was an alien.

"Don't be rude, Matthew." Beth reprimanded, standing behind her son, hands on his shoulders, and looking down at him, "This is your aunt, Molly. You've met her before."

"I don't remember…" Matthew said.

"Well I guess that's _understandable_," Beth reasoned, now looking directly at Molly, "Had only just turned two. That was more that three years ago since you—and all us—have seen Aunt Molly."

"Wow, he's so big now!" Molly exclaimed, (too cheerily and smile too wide to be real), then glancing down at him and adding, "…Aren't you, Matthew?"_ awkwardly_ (because she never had been that good with kids—even when she herself was one).

"That _does_ happen, Molly." Beth agreed, "All children grow up. Even the smallest ones you think never will. That's just what they do."

"Yes." Molly smiled, and then turned back to Matthew, "How old are you now?"

"Almost six!" Matthew declared, proudly, "And soon I'll—"

"It's time for you to go take your nap now." Beth interrupted.

"Never!" Matthew cried.

He rushed out from under his mother's grasp and out of the living room.

"Should I go after him?" Virginia asked, head turning in sync with her grandson's direction, but body not moving.

"No, don't worry about it, mum." Beth shook her head, laughing, "You've probably been chasing after him all afternoon. Thanks for that, by the way. You _deserve_ a break!"

Virginia smiled and nodded, gratefully, hurrying to sit down in the nearest armchair.

Molly saw Matthew peer from behind the wall separating this room and the hallway.

Seeing that his mother and grandmother were properly distracted, he continued his escape into the dining room where his father and someone he had never seen before (or _had_ seen before when he was two years old and just _forgotten_ like his Aunt Molly (he did sort of _recognize_ the guy a little) were putting pieces of wood together into a table.

Matthew had never realized tables were made that way. Until now he had thought that they were just kind of _there._

(Well, 'you learn something new everyday', that's what Uncle Paul said.)

However, Matthew _did_ know that wood came from trees and so did _paper_ (but _how?_ Oh, well, that didn't matter. At least he knew it _did)_ which he was very proud of.

The table was upside-down, its legs lying sideways on top of its bottom.

_Weird. _

"Whatcha doing, daddy?" Matthew asked.

Thomas set down the table-leg he was holding and turned to his son.

No.

_Step_son.

Jim stopped what he was doing as well and evaluated the appearances of Thomas and the child.

Thomas and Beth both had some variation of yellow hair, but Matthew had _brown _hair.

Thomas wasn't Matthew's_ real_ father.

(And Thomas probably _knew_ it, too, because Jim had been conversing with the guy and he wasn't _stupid_…well, _that_ stupid. He was a trial attorney. He should have recognized Jim.)

"We're building the new dinner table." Thomas answered.

"Oh." Matthew accepted, "Can_ I_ help?"

"Thanks for offering, buddy, but we've got it." Thomas refused, politely, "How was the park?"

"It was really big and cool!" Matthew described, excitedly, "…but all the other kids were there with their nannies. I was the only one there with my grandma."

Thomas sighed, but then laughed.

"Be _thankful _for that." He said, "Be thankful for _family._"

(_Yes._ Jim decided. Thomas _definitely _knew.)

"Okay." Matthew nodded and then pointed at Jim, "Who's _he?_ Have I met him before? If I did I can't remember and that's not_ rude_ 'cause I was only two and that's _'understandable'_. "

(He had trouble pronouncing the word 'understandable' saying _'un-dee-stan-abull' _instead.)

"No," Thomas responded, and then smiled tiredly at Jim in apology for his (step)son's odd statement, "You haven't met him before."

"Then who is he?" Matthew questioned, in a tone that was forgivable only because of his age.

"Well, I'm a lot of different things." Jim stated, before Thomas could speak, starting towards Matthew, "I'm a person, a human-being—_I think_, a computer whiz…sometimes, a storyteller, a criminal—"

"Is there something you need to tell us?" Thomas (mostly) joked.

"Jaywalking." Jim shrugged, "…We've all done it, haven't we?"

"Ah, yes, we all have, haven't we?" Thomas chuckled (with only just the tiniest bit of relief, and then turned to Matthew, adding for his benefit "…except _me_, of course. I'd _never_ do such a thing! I'd never _break the law!_ I am a _lawyer!_"

And once he was sure that he had 'set a good example' for his son he turned back to Jim and they grinned.

"I just meant your name, mister..." Matthew clarified, looking up at Jim confusedly.

"My name's Jim." Jim told him, "But you didn't ask my name. You asked who I was. And you can't just as somebody that question and except to get a short answer. Because people are a lot of different things."

"Oh." Matthew accepted, nodding, "…but why are you here?"

"I came with Molly." Jim said, "Your…_aunt,_ right?"

"Yeah, she's my aunt." Matthew affirmed, "Aunt Molly. _Even though I don't really remember her…" _

"Well that's…'_understandable'_." Jim reasoned (and only very _slightly _mocked the way the kid had said the word earlier. He was _sure_ Thomas hadn't noticed…or sure that it, at least, hadn't been noticeable enough for Thomas to call Jim out on in and risk being _wrong_).

"So you're Aunt Molly's boyfriend, then?" Matthew 'deduced', "…and I know what 'boyfriends' and 'girlfriends' are already, even though I'm only five and three quarters and all the other kids at school only know what 'husband' and 'wife' mean. I know because Uncle Paul always brings different ladies when he comes and he calls them his 'girlfriends' and they call him their 'boyfriend' and—"

"That's enough, Matthew." Thomas warned, "That's rude."

"But it's true!" Matthew whined, "It's true, dad! You know, you saw!"

"Doesn't matter." Thomas insisted, "It's _rude. _You don't say things like that about your uncle, Paul. It'll give Jim here the wrong _impression_ because he's never met Paul and you don't want to do that, _do you?"_

"No." Matthew shook his head, but then muttered under his breath, "..._still true though." _

"And it's still rude." Thomas declared, pointing a finger at Matthew, "And we're not going to be rude in this house."

"That's something you'll learn about the truth, _'buddy'_, I'm sure." Jim stated, leaning against the wall behind Matthew, "it's almost always rude…and _you _would _know_, right, _Mr. 'I'm A Lawyer'?" _

Thomas laughed forcibly, _awkwardly_ with his mouth but _glared_ at Jim with his eyes.

Jim just grinned, snickering.

"I_ said _we're not going to be _rude_ in this house." Thomas reminded, pointing his finger at Jim.

Jim shrugged, innocently.

"But how are you all those different things?" Matthew asked, still gazing up at Jim in confusion (and now a bit of _awe_, too, for this man had stood up to his father and only Uncle Paul had ever done _that_ before…plus they were in the 'same boat' now as Jim too was being called 'rude'), "All those things you said before?"

"Well like _I _said, everybody's a lot of things." Jim explained, "But I'm an actor and so that's why."

"An actor? That means you're on the telly!" Matthew replied, excitedly, "And I think I saw you, too, before!...on some show about what dad does or something."

"Aren't you a little _young_ to be watching court shows?" Jim raised an eyebrow.

"He's a smart kid." Thomas stated, proudly, moving to stand next to Matthew and ruffle his hair (_Brown_ hair. _Not blond._ Not his_ real_ son.), "He learns from it. Big words, the way the world works. More than any kid can from those ridiculous kid's shows that are _supposed_ to be 'educational'."

"Can't argue with that." Jim conceded.

"Yeah," Matthew agreed, leaning into his father and smiling, "…except I sometimes can't tell which ones are real or not."

"I have that problem myself, sometimes..." Jim smiled down at him.

Although they couldn't see them, Molly, Beth and Virginia could hear the entire conversation occurring in the dining room.

"A charming one, your boyfriend is." Beth commented, opening a box by ripping off the tape sharply, "…a little _strange_, perhaps, but charming."

Molly sighed.

(If only Beth _knew_…but Molly was glad that she _didn't._ No one could know.)

"I guess so." She laughed, taking the framed family photographs out of the box Beth opened and placing them on the coffee-table and the smaller but taller tables that they had set up next to the armchairs earlier.

"How'd you meet him?" Beth asked, rearranging the locations that Molly had put the pictures.

"Work." Molly answered without thinking.

_(Would Beth notice—)_

"But he just said he was an actor." Beth stated.

_(—Yes. She would. And did.)_

"…um…it was for a role." Molly saved, quickly, "He was researching."

"Oh, really? That's interesting!" Beth replied, stopping to look at Molly.

(And Molly couldn't tell if she was genuinely interested because Beth was far too good at that whole 'being polite' thing. And whatwould Jim say about women and faking it—_no._ She was _not _going to start _thinking_ like him too…except she was _already_ getting annoyed at pleasantries.)

"Yeah, it's funny." Molly smiled…and then decided to change the subject, "You're son's charming, too. He seems very smart."

Complimenting someone's child.

Safe territory that made for 'happy campers' in the _odyssey_ of conversation.

"Thank you!" Beth thanked, "He is. He really is. You know he's testing above grade level!"

Smile.

"You must be so proud."

Smile. Smile.

"Oh, we _are._"

Smile. Smile. Smile.

"Seems like a great kid!"

_Still smiling._

"He is, he really is. I couldn't have been luckier! And we love him so much—"

"See, they love him so much." Virginia interrupted, from where she was reclining on the armchair, eyes closed (Molly had thought she had fallen asleep), "_Both of them._ Both of them love Matthew so much."

"Mum—" Beth attempted but was cut-off again.

"Both of them." Virginia repeated, eyes still closed, "_See,_ Molly, Thomas loves Matthew _even though_ he's not his biological son. They love each other all the same."

"It's sweet." Molly said, "But Matthew doesn't know—"

"But Thomas _does_, dear." Virginia opened her eyes (green like her daughter's), "He knows and he still does, still loves his _son_. All the same, _all the same…"_

* * *

><p>Once the table had finally been constructed everybody sat down for dinner…which was pizza because nobody felt like cooking.<p>

The seating had been an awkward affair to arrange.

(_The Rules:_ Couples should not be separated, nor should a child be from his parents, and what of the woman who had come alone (which, _for once_, was _not _Molly)? It was all too complicated confusing…)

Finally, Beth, Matthew and Thomas (in that order) had been scrunched onto one of the longer sides of the table, across from Molly and Jim.

Virginia sat one end of the table, across from the seat they were saving for Paul, who had still not arrived (so, across from no one).

They were all sitting on folding chairs, the regular chairs hadn't even been delivered yet.

The pizza box occupied the middle of the table, which had no table cloth and only paper plates because the dishes had yet to be unpacked.

The chatting had sputtered down to another one of those _'awkward silences'_ that happened after everyone had 'wholeheartedly' agreed with something someone had said (didn't want to_ argue_) and so now no one could think of anything more to say on that subject.

Matthew, _oblivious_, just continued to shoved the tiny bites of pieces his mother had cut for him into his mouth, after pulling off all the pepperonis to eat later (he hadn't really been a contributor to the conversation anyway).

Jim had been the _perfect _dinner guest, making both _profound insights_ into and _hilarious jokes_ on every subject the hosts had managed to think of, thoroughly charming and impressing them with his air of unpracticed social ease that completely awed Molly…

(But, _of course_, it _was_ practiced. Jim had been practicing his whole life. Rehearsing his acts. He only made it _look_ like _magic._)

…up until this particular, _silent_ point.

Now Jim was distracting himself by nonchalantly chomping on pizza while he tested to see how long Molly could manage to make no reaction as his free hand gliding higher and higher up her leg, under the table, _under her skirt. _

She was actually doing quite well.

But Jim could see Molly beginning to eye the drinks on the table, trying to decide which one was the best choice to_ 'accidently' _knock over onto him.

His glass of water (tap water being the only drink available in the house at the moment) was the easiest prospect, he could see her elbow inching towards it…

Jim pulled his hand out from under the table, picked up the cup, chugged the water, and then put it back down empty where it had been.

It wouldn't be much use to Molly now if her elbow 'just happened' to knock it down onto his lap.

But before Jim's hand could return to its earlier activity, Molly spoke, crossing her legs and leaning forwards.

(_Okay._ Jim would call this a_ draw_…Wait. _Nope._ He'd still _won._ Some of Molly's hair had fallen into her plate and was getting greasy.)

"You could have hired people to unpack for you and got it done much faster." She stated, looking at Beth and Thomas in turn, "So why invite _me?_ You didn't even know I'd be bringing anybody who could help."

Beth laughed, dabbing at her lips with a paper napkin.

"So I see you've figured out our ruse." She smiled, "This all was just an excuse to get the family together."

"But Uncle Paul isn't here yet." Matthew interjected, mouthful, "And we can't tell everyone until Uncle Paul's here."

"Honey, no." Beth whispered, hastily moving the napkin to her son's mouth, "…Don't talk with your mouthful." She smiled apologetically around the table, "_Sorry."_

But covering Matthew's mouth and apologizing hadn't distracted Molly from what Matthew had said.

"Tell everyone what?" Molly inquired, innocently.

"Nothing, nothing—there's nothing _to_ tell." Beth dismissed, looking down at her plate, "I don't know what he's on about. He just misses Paul, that's all."

Molly was unconvinced.

(And so was Jim. Beth may have been better at social situations than Molly but she was still doing that same _thing_ that Molly did when she was lying. The_ talking too much and too quickly, not making eye contact _thing. It was adorable…_that is_, when _Molly _did it. _Beth_, not so much…)

"Just tell us." Molly insisted, "I know there's something…"

"We're going to wait until Paul's here." Beth resolved, taking a breath.

"Paul's not coming." Molly declared.

"You don't know that!" Beth countered.

"Yes I do."

"You don't know everything, Molly, even if you think you do. You don't—"

"But I know this. I know Paul's not coming."

"No you—"

"And I know you're pregnant."

Yes, as if the bickering sisters hadn't been _awkward _enough, now one of them had just outed the other as pregnant.

"Well!" Virginia exclaimed, smiling so widely as if she thought her teeth would be sharp enough to cut the tension, "Congratulations, then, Beth, Thomas!"

"Thank you…" Beth murmured to her mother and then to Molly, "…but how did you know?"

"I'm not _stupid_." Molly smiled, "The new house. Four bedrooms. Gathering the whole family together—well, _almost. _And I _did_ go to medical school. I know the signs._"_ she snorted, then, almost unnoticeably (and it was _crueler_ than Jim had ever heard her sound) _"…and it's not like I didn't figure it out the last time." _

Beth's breath hitched, but she still smiled and said, "_Oh, well. _I just wanted it to be a_ surprise _for everyone. It's not like it's a secret or anything."

"Yeah, and I'm glad it's all out there now." Thomas laughed, sitting back in his chair, "I'd been having trouble keeping it in, I've been dying to tell somebody all day!"

"You can tell Uncle Paul when he gets here." Matthew suggested, glancing up at his father.

"_If _he gets here." Molly corrected.

_Smile. _

"He _will_." Beth affirmed, assuredly.

_Smile. _

"Paul's your favorite uncle, isn't he?" Jim asked Matthew, leaning across the table to steal a pepperoni piece from Matthew's stockpile.

"He's my _only_ uncle." Matthew shrugged, pulling his plate closer to him to protect the rest of his stash.

"Well that makes it easy then." Jim said, leaning backwards again as popped the pepperoni into his mouth, "Only having one uncle and one aunt. _Don't have to pick favorites_."

"Well, how do you know he's only got one uncle and one aunt?" Thomas inquired.

"Kid just said he's only got one uncle," Jim reasoned, looking at him, "And your wife's has just _one _brother and _one_ sister."

"How do you know I don't have a sister?" Thomas persisted.

Jim grinned.

"I didn't think _your_ siblings counted."

"…What do you _mean_ by that?"

Thomas was controlling his tone and facial expression as much as he could but his eyes were uninhibited _anger._

"Well, you know, _you not actually—" _

Jim felt something (Molly's shoe) stomp sharply down on his foot under the table.

"—having any siblings." Jim completed his sentencing with a wince and a smile.

"How'd you know that?" Thomas questioned, raising an eyebrow.

He was_ softening_ but his guard and suspicions were still raised.

"Oh that's _easy!"_ Jim chuckled, "This is a family thing, right? And you two wanted _'everyone'_ to be here. You've just announced that you're expecting a child. If you had any siblings they'd be here to hear it."

"Very good." Thomas smiled, also chuckling.

"It also means your parents are probably _dead_, too—or at least in a nursing home." Jim added, with (exaggerated) solemnly, "Either way, I'm sorry for your loss."

Molly was about to stamp on Jim's foot again but to her (pleasant)surprise, Thomas laughed again.

"Dad's dead, mum's in a home." He confirmed.

"Had you late in life, didn't they?" Jim suspected, "Both had profitable careers, busy schedules. Waited until they were established and had saved up a lot of money to settle down and start a family. And by then they were only able to conceive one child, even with the medical treatments. And so they poured all their time, money and energy onto you. Tutors, extra-curricular activities, law school. They created the perfect, successful son in their own images."

"Wow!" Thomas exclaimed, excitedly, with an enthusiastic laughed, "You got all that right! Except, of course, I wouldn't say I'm _'perfect'_…"

"I would." Beth said, leaning over sideways to rub her husband on the back appreciatively.

"He's not bad." Jim shrugged, with a wink that almost kicked him for under the table.

"You're not bad, yourself!" Thomas returned, arm around his wife (and so his son, too) but his eyes still on Jim, "You're quite the _detective!_"

"Like I said, I'm a lot of things." Jim stated.

"You're like that Sherlock Holmes." Matthew declared, he then turned to look up at his father, "I saw him on the news…dad, is Sherlock Holmes real?"

"You said he was on the news, didn't you?" Thomas reminded, "So what do you think? What did we decide about what we saw on the news?"

"That it's true, it's real." Matthew recalled.

Jim covered his laughter by wiping his face with a paper napkin.

"So you can answer your own question, then." Thomas told Matthew, then turning back to Jim and adding, "I'm teaching him to how to _think._ Nobody teaches kids how to _think_ anymore in schools."

Jim continued to clean his face.

"Sherlock Holmes _is_ real then." Matthew decided, "…but then that means Jim _isn't _an _actor _because _actors_ aren't _real_ and the news _is_ real and I saw Jim on the news."

"That wasn't him." Molly said, almost choking on her food, "It was just someone who _looked _like him."

"Oh." Matthew nodded, "Okay…when's Uncle Paul getting here?"

"Finish your pizza, dear." Beth instructed, lifting one of the little pieces she had cut for her son and brining it to his mouth.

It was a useful _and_ polite way of keeping him quiet.

Now there was another one of those '_awkward silences'._

Molly was going to ask some neutral question about the schools in the area, as Thomas had mentioned teaching a few moments before, in order to restart the conversation but this time Jim spoke up.

"Molly wanted to wait until Paul got here, too, before telling everyone…but since Beth's secret got told, its only fair ours is too."

"_What _are you _talking about_, um…'_honey'?"_ Molly asked, trying to smile across the table at her sister, her brother-in-law and their son, while glaring at Jim out of the corner of her eye.

Jim could feel a foot hovering above his own, _waiting to strike. _

_Oooh, time to play footsie! _

(But Jim doesn't play_ fair_, 'honey', Jim plays to _win_.)

He slid his foot out from under hers, then pinning hers down and not releasing it even when it struggled to get free.

And Molly was doing quite well, once again, at having no visible reaction.

"Yeah, what _are _you talking about? _Do tell._" Beth inquired, innocence feigned exaggeratedly for the sake of sarcasm, "I mean, you_ must_ have _some important secret_ to _announce_ if—_after you've avoided me for years_—you show up here with a new man on your arm. I'm not _stupid_, Molly. I wonder just _what_ it could be?"

"_Beth._" Thomas hissed.

He tried to smile across the table at Jim and Molly while glaring at his wife out of the corner of his eye.

"We're engaged." Jim announced, taking Molly's hand, "We haven't got a ring or set a date yet or anything, but Molly and I are engaged."

"_No, we're not!"_ Molly cried, before she could stop herself or think of something _smarter_ to say.

"We're _not?"_ Jim gasped, taken aback, expression utterly shocked and confused.

(Oh, how Molly_ hated _him sometimes…)

The table, then, was set with wide mouths and eyes and raised eyebrows.

"_...Well …"_ Virginia said, locking eyes with Thomas who was as unsure of what to say as she was.

_Beth_ was _not._

"What, you two can't make up your minds, then?" she snickered.

_Yes. _

_Something _like that.

"No—well—yes—"Molly stammered, "What I mean is…I just didn't want to say anything yet. Like Jim said, I didn't want to say it until Paul got here…"

"So you two _are_ engaged?" Virginia asked, "or _aren't _you?"

"_Are_ we?" Jim added.

(…Really, _really _hated.)

Everybody was turned towards and looking at Molly, who sat silent, eyes darting around at each of them.

_What_ could she even _say?_

She had_ known_ that bringing Jim was a _bad idea_. Just _look_ what he had _done._ This was all_ his_ fault.

"Jim, he…he hasn't gotten me a ring yet." Molly declared, with a huff, "And so _therefore_ I do _not _consider myself _'engaged'—_Even if _he_, um…_ does_."

Everybody seemed to accept that answer, some even chuckling a bit.

"No ring?" Thomas chastised jokingly, turning to Jim, "Shame on you, sir!"

"Yeah, without a ring it's not _official._" Beth agreed, still looking at Molly, smiling and shrugging, "…_Shame indeed."_

"Don't look at me like that!" Jim protested, "I'll get one as soon as I can afford it!" he turned to Molly, "I thought we talked about this, darling—"

"We _did?"_ Molly gasped, taken aback, expression utterly shocked and confused.

(Oh, _god_, sometimes Jim really _loved_ her.)

"Well, congratulations anyway." Beth sniffed.

"Yes, congratulations—even if it's not _'official'_…" Virginia agreed, standing up, "This calls for desert! I'll go and get it…Beth will you help me in the kitchen?"

She started out of the dining room, through the door that led to the kitchen.

Beth stood up slowly, pushing in her chair and then following her.

"Jim, can I talk to you in the other room?" Molly asked.

Much less _discreet _than Virginia had been, but still just as effective.

"Sure." Jim shrugged.

Molly and Jim got up, Molly hurrying out of the dining room into the hall and Jim sauntering after her.

Thomas and Matthew were left at the newborn table, christened by pizza.

"_Exhibit A,"_ Thomas began, gesturing towards the door to the kitchen, "When one female wants to talk to another female, _alone_, they do it in the kitchen where all the women of the world go to conspire against us men…and _Exhibit B_," he gestured to the door leading to the hall, "When a female is angry at her male, she pulls him out of whatever room full of people they're in so that he'll be _all alone_ and _undefended_ when she _pounces._"

Thomas made a mock 'pounce' at his son from his seat next to him, causing Matthew to laugh uncontrollably.

Just like Uncle Paul had said, he learned something new everyday.

* * *

><p>"She did this on purpose!"<p>

"Don't be_ angry_, dear…"

"_Of course_I'm angry, mum, Molly did this on purpose-!"

"Keep your voice down!"

"_She did this on purpose._ She's not the _innocent little girl_ you think she is. She did this on purpose just to _ruin my day_ and _steal my moment_—"

"Just be _happy_ for her—"

"Why_ should_ _I be?_ She's only ever been jealous of me!"

"That's not true—"

"Yes it is and you know it. All she's ever been is _jealous._ And all she's ever done is try to _bring me dow_n."

"No, dear, Molly isn't like that…"

"Yes she is! She's so passive aggressive! And congratulations, Molly! You've finally_ upstaged_ me—"

"Keep your voice down, Bethany, for _god's sake_!"

"Don't say you don't see it, mother. I know you can, she's always been like this ever since…"

"Your father died?"

"Yes! And she needs to get over it!"

"It was very hard for her. She was the one who cared for him, the one there watching him as he—"

"I know, _I know_, you've said this all before and I know. But every time I try to reach out to her she pulls away, she ignores me, but now she comes and does _this_…_my god_, mum, I think she _hates_ me…"

"…What do you want me to do, honey? What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know, _something…._ _Anything!"_

"…I'm not Molly's mother, Beth…."

"But you raised her like one! You _love_ her like one!"

"Yes, but she doesn't love _me _like one."

Ear pressed to the painted (_freshly._ Only a week ago) wall, Molly could hear the hushed conversation between her half-sister and stepmother.

_This was all Jim's fault! _

And Jim could hear the whole thing too, he had his ear to the wall, his head right next to hers.

"You can't just _do _that." She whispered.

He heard her through the wall, her back still turned to him.

"Do _what?_" Jim asked.

And she heard his words through the wall and heard his breathing behind her.

"You know exactly what." Molly stated, turning around to face him.

He had expected tears in her eyes, but there were none, instead there was a glare.

It was kind of cute.

"Say we're engaged?" Jim inferred, "_Why not?"_

"Because it's going too far."

"_No such thing,_ love…and _besides,_ you wanted to prove to your family you're not a miserable old spinster. I'm just _helping."_

"This isn't 'helping'! You just made things worse! You—"

"_Keep your voice down."_

Jim grinned, leaning against the wall still and Molly continued to glare.

"_You. can't. do. this." _

"Why not? I can do anything I want to, _when will you learn_, anyone can do anything they want to—as long as they're not too _scared._"

"No, it's not like you can fly or—"

"You know what I mean. And this is all just a bit of_ fun_, anyway. We can take it as far you want to. I can buy you a ring—if you want. And we can even get married—if you want. We can do anything…"

Molly laughed, _despite herself_…or maybe it was very _deliberate._

"I'm not_ stupid_. I know you don't_ mean_ that—"

"Yes I do."

"It's not _real_."

"Ah, but what _is_ 'real'?"

"_Don't _get philosophical with me."

"Or _what?_ What will you _do _to me? _Threaten me_, Molly, _I want you to_—"

"_No._ Just _don't._ Don't."

"And what's more _important _to you, anyway. Something being 'real' or something making you _happy?" _

"What do you mean?"

"Would you rather know that I _love_ you, f_orever_, but—then never see me again…or would you rather have _me_, all to yourself, _forever—_but know that I don't love you at all and I'm only just pretending?"

"No."

" 'No' to _which?"_

"_No._ Just _no_."

* * *

><p>Back seated around the dining table everyone ate their desert (grocery store cake out of a box—<em>'why did it take so long to bring out?' <em>Matthew had asked), making small talk as sweet and artificial as the 'sugar' in their tea (which Matthew was still too young to drink—'when you're older, dear' Beth had said).

"So, do know if my second grandchild's a boy or girl yet?" Virginia inquired, her station perpendicular to her daughter's.

"Oh no, I'm only just thirteen weeks," Beth answered, "We won't find out 'til I'm at least four months."

"Well, with Molly knowing you're pregnant and Jim knowing my life story from the fact that I don't have any siblings," Thomas joked, "I think if they put their heads together they could probably figure out the gender, don't you _concur?_."

Beth rolled her eyes but laughed politely.

"I didn't know your 'life story' from the fact you don't have siblings," Jim corrected, also laughing politely, "I knew it from the fact that you can't yet be forty but you've already got a dead father and a mother in a home. It's the most _probable _explanation—And I say 'probable' because, of course, your parents could have simply not been here because they'd been eaten by sharks."

"True, true." Thomas conceded, "But still, that's pretty damn impressive. Give it a try, why don't you?"

Jim leaned forwards, bent over the table, staring intently at Beth's stomach.

But after a few long, silent moments of not even blinking, Jim sighed and sank back into his seat.

"Nope." He shook his head, "X-ray vision's still broken. Sorry."

"Ah, well." Thomas shrugged, "Least you tried…" he then turned to Molly, "How about you, Molly? Can_ you_ tell me whether we've got another boy in there or a girl?"

Molly, whom had been gazing into her all-but empty paper plate, sketching random shapes into the leftover frosting with her plastic fork, trying her best to be i_gnored _(when normally she didn't even_ need_ to 'try'), looked up at Thomas who was smiling and then at Beth who was also smiling.

_Smile. Smile. Smile. _

"Well…I…" Molly began, glancing down at Beth's belly (still basically flat) rather than making eye contact, "…I_ can't_—I mean, girls are usually carried lower than boys, but it's too soon to tell and there's no way to know for sure until it's born, even_ with _an ultrasound because sometimes those are _wrong_…so sorry. I don't know either."

"It's okay." Beth told her, glancing quickly to Thomas, "It was a silly request anyway. We'll just go to a doctor when the time comes."

"And besides," Thomas added, "We'll be happy either way."

"And what about _you_, 'buddy'?" Jim questioned, turning to Matthew who was eating his cake with his hands, "Will you be happy either way?"

Matthew looked up, frosting decorating his face and fingers.

"I dunno…" he mumbled.

"Well which do you want it to be?" Jim rephrased (_not _sighing, _not _rolling his eyes) "Do you want a _little sister_ or a _little brother?"_

"Don't ask that!" Molly exclaimed, and then explained, "It's not like he can control what it is and he's supposed to love his sibling either way!"

_Explained_, even though she _knew that _Jim _knew_ exactly why that was a _rude _question to ask but explaining because if she_ didn't_ explain then _everyone else_ would _know_ that Jim knew and then Jim would seem_ rude_ and so _she _would seem _stupid_ for picking him (Which she _was_, wasn't she?—_oh wait_. She_ didn't_ 'pick' him._ He _picked_ her_. (Not her fault. Not her fault. Not her fault.)).

"I want a little brother!" Matthew declared.

"Alright." Jim accepted, chuckling, "You might change you mind later, though."

"Jim!" Molly chastised again, for the table's sake, of course, not Jim's (for her _own_ sake), seeing as Jim was _hopeless._

"I'm _joking_." Jim defended, "What I mean is that_ I_ happen to _be_ a little brother myself and _my _big brother, well, he_ always_ got annoyed at me, growing up. _Still does." _

"Oh, you've got an older brother." Beth commented, smiling, "_That's nice. _And what does _he_ do?"

Jim laughed, locking eyes with Molly, who laughed as well—_nervously._

"Well it's perfectly _legal._" He stated, "—but that's all I'm allowed to say."

"… '_legal'_…oh, _I get it_, he's a _lawyer_, isn't he? " Thomas 'deduced' (_incorrectly_) inspired by Jim's earlier deductions (_correct_), "Like _me!_ Ha, ha. 'Legal'. That's clever—_and_ that explains all the lawyer jokes from earlier! So your brother's an attorney, then?"

Jim held a finger up to his own lips.

"_Shhh." _He said.

And Thomas laughed, thinking (_incorrectly_) that he was _correct._

"See, I'm _learning_." he continued, "You_ can_ 'teach an old dog new tricks'—Not that I'm _'old'_, or anything…_well maybe to you two_…"

Thomas glanced at his wife and stepson who were twelve and thirty-three years younger than him respectively.

Beth laughed politely (_awkwardly_), the age difference in her marriage sometimes being the source of _problems._

Matthew just stared up at his father as if he had just stated the obvious.

"Of course, you're old, dad." He stated, plainly, "_You're a dad!_ Parents are _supposed_ to be old!"

And it was another polite, amused laugh at her son's antics the noise from Beth's mouth quickly covered with a napkin (_definitely not_ her choking on the bit of cake she had been chewing).

Molly_ would_ have been able to appreciate the _irony_ of this situation…

…but Jim had decided to hold her hand under the table and so, instead, she had to appreciate the irony of _that._

"Yes," Virginia piped up, to spare her daughter anymore 'irony', "it was very impressive, what you did. That trick—"

"It's not a 'trick'!" Thomas interjected, "It's a bloody _skill!_"

"_Stop it,_ you're making me _blush_…" Jim whined bashfully.

"Don't sell yourself short, mate." Thomas insisted, "I bet you can read people. Just like that. I could use a man like you to help me select juries…"

"You offering me a _job_, Tommy?" Jim inquired, raising an eyebrow, "Cause I'll have you know, I don't _work_ for anyone but _myself._ However I do _consult_—"

Thomas chuckled, leaning back in his chair, "I was_ kidding, _'Jimmy'—but only _half _kidding. The firm's not hiring now, you see."

"Oh, well." Jim shrugged, also leaning back, arms behind his head now (_letting go of Molly's hand…) _"Guess it's just court shows for now, then."

"Shame, you're wasted on the D-list…" Thomas began but was cut-off.

"It wasn't_ that_ great, what he said." Beth _(rudely!)_ interrupted, having heard enough compliments of her sister's boyfriend from her husband, "It's not like he figured out _everything_ about you. Just a few details. And not all of them were _right_, even. You said his parents 'had' him after fertility treatments. They _didn't._ You got that wr_ong. _Tom was adopted."

"_I knew that." _Jim smirked, "It was _obvious _from the family photos you and Molly were unpacking…I just didn't want to say _that word_ in front of the children."

Now, Matthew rolled_ his_ eyes (how many times had heard that one before _'oh don't say that in front of the children'_? it was so annoying…).

Jim smiled over at him sympathetically.

"Speaking of 'children'…" Beth said, standing up, "I think it's time for a _certain child _to go to bed."

Immediately, Matthew attempted to dive under the table and hide, but Thomas was able to grab him by the stomach and lift him, struggling, into Beth's arms.

"Do you need any help?" Molly asked, all of a sudden.

She had jumped up from her chair just as she had seen Virginia (who looked very tired) prepare to rise for hers.

"No, Molly, I _don't._" Beth refused, with a frustrated smile, still wrestling with her son.

"Oh..." Molly nodded, slowly sitting back down, "…Alright…"

She watched Beth drag Matthew (who was too big, now, for her to _carry_), 'kicking and screaming', out of the dining room.

_For once_ she was actually _not_ jealous of her sister and actually_ glad _she did _not_ have children of her own (a pet cat would do _just fine_, thank you very much).

Sitting in her chair, expressionless, Molly saw Jim turn to her with a look of concern so _genuine _she wanted to _puke._

"Darling, are you alright?" he asked, quietly.

Molly was about to tell him (but for Thomas and Virginia's benefit) that she was _fine_…

…but then she decided to 'just go with it'.

"She doesn't even want to be in the _same room_ as me." Molly sighed sadly, "_My sister_…Beth… she—she _hates _me."

And it wasn't even like Molly was _lying_ about this. She wasn't even _pretending. _

It was all _true_, it was all _real. _

"Oh, _honey_…" Virginia cooed, now getting up (which Molly felt bad about) and going to put her arm (awkwardly) around Molly's shoulders, "No she doesn't."

"She's just hormonal." Thomas added, from across the table, "It's the pregnancy affecting her."

(And he and Jim shared a quick look that said _'women' _after Jim had smiled over at him thankfully and apologetically (_politely_).)

"Yes, dear, and she's upset that Paul couldn't make it." Virginia agreed, clearing the paper plates from the table, "He's always so busy and she misses him—just like she misses _you_."

"Okay, okay." Molly accepted, smiling up at Virginia and then across at Thomas, "Thank you. Thank you both. " she started to stand, "…But it's getting late. I think Jim and I need to get going now—"

"_No._ Please, stay the night."

Molly heard Beth's voice and turned around to see her sister in the doorway.

"Oh, no, we _can't_—"

"Sure you can. We've got the guest room already set up and mum's leaving tonight, anyway, so it's free."

"But—"

"I insist."

"Thanks, we'd love to!"

And Molly heard _Jim's_ voice and felt another arm around her shoulder, this time his (—as well as his breath again on her neck as he whispered, _"don't worry, it'll be fine"_ in a tone more _sinister _than soothing).

* * *

><p>They had <em>no<em> _toothbrushes_ (or toiletries of any kind) to wash up with before bed.

_No pajamas _to wear (and no clothes for tomorrow, either).

And _no_ _one_ to feed Toby!

"I've got _people_ for that." Jim said, words mangled, as he emerged from the guest room's adjoining bathroom brushing his teeth (how?).

"What?" Molly asked, "You've got people who would _break into my flat…_ and _feed my cat…_ while I'm not there?"

"Yeah." Jim shrugged, "…_well_, I mean, they _could_ do it while you were there, too, but I don't see why you'd_ want _that..._unless…_—_no_, I don't think you'd be_ in_ to _that_ sort of thing _and besides_ I'd _never_ trust _them_ to do that_ right_ and—"

"But you trust them not to, you know,_ steal_ anything?" Molly countered, skeptically.

"Of course! _They're professionals_." Jim stated, then mumbling "…but _even so_, I'd still have to do _that_ _myself_…" as he paced back into the bathroom.

And Molly did _not_ even _want_ _to know_ what the 'that' Jim had been talking about _was. _

She was seated on the guest bed.

Its beige sheets had not been changed from nights the (_two_, Jim had somehow 'deduced') Virginia had slept in it but Molly certainly wasn't going to _complain _(that would be _rude!_).

After all, Virginia was 'family', wasn't she?

(And she was a very clean woman, too. Virginia had always 'kept a clean house', as she had always said, back when she was a housewife.)

Molly was _not _going to become _spoiled _just because she had been sleeping in king sized hotel beds that the maids changed the sheets of every morning, lately.

(And was she _still_ paying for that room? Jim_ had_ mentioned something about reimbursing her or switching it over to his name or _something… _but then nothing had ever happened after that.)

"I never knew it was your _stepmother_ you got your cleanliness from…always assumed it was from your mum."

Molly heard Jim say from inside the bathroom.

And then he spit into the sink.

"…but Virginia's the one who left us the toothpaste in here. And the soap…"

The water ran.

Then Jim was back in the doorway.

"She brought _four extra toothbrushes_." He declared, holding up the brushes (cheap, economy brand (she had bought in bulk ever since her husband died) and different colors. the blue one was wet. must have been the one Jim had used).

"Must have worried they'd forget theirs at the old place," Molly reasoned, referring to Beth, Thomas and Matthew, "and so had them just in case. She _did_ always come prepared."

"And now she's left the package for us, sweet old lady." Jim smiled, "_She must really care_."

(Molly suddenly remembered how Jim had blown an old lady up and almost blown up a little boy. And she had just exposed an 'old lady' (later middle-age) and a little boy to Jim on the same day. _Great idea_…but not _her_ idea.)

"Yeah…" Molly agreed, also smiling (_awkwardly)_ up at him from where she sat, eyes shifting.

"Which one do you want?" Jim asked.

"Oh, whichever." Molly answered, walking over to him, 'randomly' grabbing the blue toothbrush, and then stepping into the bathroom.

It really_ was _nice.

Well lit, clean cream colored tiles, only a shower (no bathtub but the master bathroom had a jacuzzi sized one).

As Molly brushed her teeth, she could see Jim in the mirror's reflection, still standing in the door way, staring at her and so (out of habit) she looked down into the white bowl of the sink, spitting down.

When she looked back up Jim was gone.

Washing her face, Molly decided instead of showering in this strange house (either tonight or tomorrow morning) she'd just wait until she got back home and could actually change clothes anyway.

As she exited the bathroom she started to speak.

"Jim, are you're, um, _'people' _actually going to feed Toby or should I—_what the hell? _What are you wearing?"

Molly, wide-eyed and wide-mouthed, gaped at Jim.

He on the bed, reclining against the headboard wearing an undershirt and_ pink panties._

_Her_ pink panties.

(!)

"What?" Jim asked, setting down his phone next to him, "You don't like it?"

"Those—those are mine!" Molly stammered, "I've been looking for those!"

"You left them at the hotel that time you woke up _really late_." Jim explained, remembering the day Molly had asked him to wake her up at six AM but instead he had decided to stand there and watch her sleep (—just to see how long she would. That was the_ only_ reason._ Definitely._) "…I can give them back, if you'd like…"

He started to stand (bouncing up and down slightly on the mattress) and pull the elastic down.

"No!" Molly exclaimed, "—Uh, well, _not now_. You can keep them on. It's fine."

"You _sure?_" Jim checked, eyeing her and grinning.

"_Yes,_ I'm _sure!_" Molly replied, still in shock, "But those are for _women_—why would you—"

"'Cause it's _fashionable._" Jim declared, "_Sherlock _does it."

(And just_ how _did Jim get that information?)

"…oh." Molly said and plopped down backwards onto the bed, between its foot and Jim's feet.

She closed her eyes.

"So…" Jim began, "…why have you and baby-sis Bethany been acting so _bitchy_ all day?"

"…don't wanna talk about it…" Molly muttered, covering her already closed eyes with her palm.

"Aw, come on! You girls are _sisters! _You're supposed to be _best friends forever and ever and ever—"_

"You've probably worked it all out, haven't you?"

"Not_ all_ of it."

Molly sat up, opening her eyes and turning to Jim. His eyes were closed now and he was leaning back against the dark, wooden headboard.

"What do you have?"

"Little Betty had a baby when she was nothing but baby herself. Dropped outta school. _You didn't like that…_did you, Molly?"

"No—I mean _no_, I _didn't like it._ You're _right._ That's right. Beth _did _get pregnant. She was only _twenty_."

"Where's the daddy?"

"She ran away with him-_that's _why she dropped out. It was _before_ she got pregnant…but then he left her, when she did. And so she came back."

"Hmm. I see. And the two of you never got on after that?"

"No…no. I tried to warn her. I told her what would happen…"

"But she didn't listen?"

"Uh-huh."

"We never do."

"… 'we'?"

"Baby sisters and baby brothers."

"Oh."

"We just do whatever we want. We've always got to learn the hard way—except we never do. We've always got our big brothers and big sisters to come clean up our messes..."

"Yes! That's exactly what happened! She came back, _crying and pregnant_, not even an _apology_—even though she'd been gone almost six months, and they all just _forgave _her! Virginia, I understand, she's Beth's mum but—"

"Brother Paul?"

"_Yes._ Paul…_Paul forgave her_. They all forgave her—except for _me._ I _didn't._ I _couldn't._ Not again. _Not after so many times…_

"It's okay, Molly, just let it all out, let it all out, it's okay to cry, it'll be okay…"

Jim was rubbing Molly's back now, her long light-brown hair draped over his arm.

She couldn't tell if he was being _sincere_ in his comforting—or _just joking _(or some _combination_ of the two…or _trying_ to be sincere but _failing_ because he was completely incapable…or, _maybe_, joking because he_ didn't know how_ to be sincere in the first place).

"I'm not going to _cry_." Molly stated, shrugging him off of her, "_I'm just_—I'm just a little bit…_angry."_

The word 'angry' came out with all the hesitation and gravity of a curse word.

Molly _didn't_ _get_ 'angry'.

…or at least she wasn't _supposed_ to.

She was _supposed_ to sit there and smile like a good little girl and maybe cry into her pillow sometimes if she felt the need to be _emotional._

Jim smirked.

" '_Angry'_? You know I'd really love to see you angry…but, darling, I don't think you know the _meaning_ of the word—let alone how to _achieve_ it."

And, _no. _

She _wasn't_ supposed to know, was she?

"You're _right_-and I shouldn't even _be_ angry, anyway." Molly resolved, "I _should _be_ happy_ for her. Happy things _worked out alright_ _in the end_ and she's got such a great son like Matthew. Happy she found a husband who loves her _and_ her son like Thomas…"

…_happy she made all the mistakes Molly never got to have the fun of making and still got the perfect life…_

…_happy Paul still forgave her…_

"…Beth doesn't have _everything_, you know…"

(But_ didn't_ she?)

Jim, in his ridiculous underwear (_her _ridiculous underwear—which was only ridiculous on him(_but also strangely attractive_)), had grabbed Molly by the shoulders and was trying to get her to look him in the eyes as if she wouldn't be _distracted._

"Beth doesn't have everything." He repeated, seriously, "She may have a fancy, new house and rich, lawyer husband and a _marginally _cute kid… but _Beth doesn't have everything."_

"_Oh yeah?_ And what _doesn't _she have? _Problems…?" _Molly snapped, whipping her gaze away from him towards the empty wall (painted manila like the rest of the house).

"She doesn't have _me_." Jim stated.

Molly turned back to face him.

His words were to be expected, of course…

…and so, _of course_, was the kiss.

They_ did_ kind of have a _routine_, in a way, this was _normal…_

But when Molly felt Jim's hands (_magically_ and _completely _of their _accord_—_not his fault._) glide down her arms—_and then_ _right back up her thighs_, raising her flowy, floral skirt out of their way as they traveled along…

…it was time to 'break tradition'.

"_No._" Molly said, removing Jim's hands from her, "Not here."

"_Aww_…but why not?" Jim whined.

(_What?_ He couldn't go _one day_ without _'it'? _Well, he_ was_ a guy… _But still_, some _manners_, please! He was usually pretty good at faking those…)

"Because there's a _kid _here, my nephew!" Molly hissed.

"He's _asleep_." Jim reminded, "He never had his nap today. He'll be out all night."

"My sister's just down the hall!" Molly added.

"We can fix that." Jim shrugged, "We can invite her in…"

"Jim!" Molly gasped.

"Well, it wouldn't be_ fair_ to make her just _listen_ while her husband's out doing _who-knows-what_—"

"He's driving Virginia to the airport!"

"_So they say_. They could be in the back of his Bentley—"

"It wasn't even a Bentley! It was some kind of foreign car…I think…"

"Oh, didn't know you knew cars, Molly."

"I don't…"

"Ex-boyfriend?"

"Older brother."

"Oh. Well, I'm rubbish at all that automotive stuff, but I'm brilliant with shoes…_where were we, again?_ Oh yeah! Thomas and his mother-in-law's not-so-secret tryst and Beth's vengeful threesome with her spinster sister and that spinster sister's brilliant and unfairly sexy boyfriend who, by the way, is extremely well—"

"No. That is just so…_messed up!"_

Jim just snickered.

Molly gasped, offendedly (although it wasn't the most genuine of gasps or offenses taken).

"It's _not_ funny!"

"Then _why_ are you _laughing?"_

And Molly _was_ laughing.

Trying and failing to suck her smile back into her face, finally covering her mouth as the floodgates finally opened and the giggles came spilling out.

"Because it's—cause it's _awkward!"_ she managed to choke out, bending forwards, face in hands, "…And I can't help it! I just laugh in awkward situations...it's just something I do!"

"I know." Jim said, "It's_ sweet._"

Molly, head still half down in her own lap, looked up at him.

He was smirking—no_,_ _smiling._

And he looked like he meant it too.

Molly had to rise and kiss Jim then, whether he meant it or not, because what_ he_ had said was 'sweet', whether he meant it or not.

(And _did_ he mean it? Could this all, after so long, still be some elaborate lie? All be just a game?...Somebody like Jim wouldn't waste his time on someone like her, would he, unless he really did like her…then again, someone like Jim (in fact, only Jim) would fake something (a relationship) like this just because he was bored—_But he had Sherlock_. Jim could be 'with' (bothering) _Sherlock_ right now. But he _wasn't_. He was with _her._)

Fingers_ politely _combing through her hair this time as they kissed, Jim finally broke it to whisper, forehead against Molly's, "so about that threesome with your sister…?"

"Jim!" Molly exclaimed, pulling away from him, and even slapping him (very lightly) on the cheek.

She tried her best to look and sound shocked and offended…

…but then promptly gave up and cracked up again.

"What! You know I'm kidding…"Jim shrugged, rubbing his cheek, "I just wanted to see you smile again."

(And oh, how she _hated _him sometimes—but only _sometimes_.)

Molly leaned up and kissed him on his 'slapped' cheek.

"_Thank you." _she whispered into his skin, "That's… _sweet."_

* * *

><p>In the middle of the night Jim finally heard the front door of the house swing open, close behind someone and footsteps trudge up the stairs.<p>

Thomas's and Beth's voices said quiet words to each other from their bedroom down the hall, light now turning on.

What had taken Thomas so long to take Virginia to the airport…it wasn't that far away.

(…Maybe his joke about the affair was actually true…_no._ it would have been in their body language. So why…? Thomas could have been out those four hours screwing the queen for all Jim cared. It wasn't _his_ problem.)

Jim reached over to the bedside table, past his smartphone, to pick up the knife Molly had found in his when had been folding the pants he had thrown onto the floor.

( _'You can't just leave it there. They'll get wrinkled! We have to wear the same clothes tomorrow—at least till we get back home._' She had said, and he had loved the way she had said 'home' without thinking, then noticing it immediately after and 'discreetly' checking to see if he had, trying to have no reaction herself.)

She had felt the heavy, hard thing in his pocket (_ha, ha, ha!_), and had pulled it out, confused, asking why he had a knife (_heavens!_) with him._ 'self defense' _he had said, _'might need to murder somebody…'._

_Might. _

In the darkness, the blade glinted, reflecting the light creeping in under the door to the guest room, as Jim examined it. He could still hear Beth and Thomas talking in whispers (_polite_ so as not to wake anyone).

_Just might. _

Jim moved to sit up and get out of the bed…but he was prevented by something—_No_…_someone._

Molly.

Her arm was draped over him, hand clutching his shoulder lightly, and her head was lying on his chest instead of on one of the (firm and very substantial—but still adequately fluffy) pillows.

_When did she get there? _

Eyes closed, she was sleeping and even sort of snoring, too…

(It _should have_ been annoying.)

…And now Jim couldn't possibly move without waking her.

(That _also_ should have been annoying.)

_Oh well. _

Sighing, Jim returned the knife to the beside table and sunk back down into the bed, resting one arm behind his head and the other on top (around) Molly (—because he had nowhere else to put it, of course).

* * *

><p>The birds were chirping outside and the sunlight was spilling into the room from the window as Molly awoke.<p>

_Ah, how lovely— _

Wait a minute.

_Where was Jim? _

Molly sat up in bed, throwing the covers off and scanning the guest bedroom for a sign of him.

Jim was _gone!_

_No! _

_He'd done it!  
><em>

He'd _really_ done it!

He'd gone and killed her whole family in the night and because she was the one who brought him here it was _all her fault!_

Molly had_ tried _to keep Jim from moving but somehow he had escaped her and the room and went to go use that knife just like he said he would.

She jumped out of the bed, and ran out of the room, into the hallway.

Having removed her skirt to sleep, Molly was now dashing around the upper floor of her sister's new house in her (not pink) underwear, a t-shirt and socks.

_Classy. _

Beth and Thomas were not in their room and neither was Matthew in his.

_No! _

_They were gone!_

Jim had called his 'people' to come and take them away!

_This was all her fault! _

She had_ known_ bringing Jim here was a _bad idea…_

And now she couldn't even find _him._

Almost slipping as she sprinted around the hardwood floors, Molly dashed down the stairs, calling out "Jim!".

"…in here!" his voice replied, surprisingly enough.

Molly turned the corner, still running, into the dining room.

There Jim and Beth sat at the table across from each other, drinking coffee and eating pastries (from a local shop, judging from the plastic bag nearby), as they chatted, laughing.

The two of them turned to see Molly, wide-eyed in the doorway.

"Hey, there!" Beth smiled.

"Nice outfit." Jim grinned. Somehow, he had acquired fresh clothing (jeans and a shirt—aged and baggy on him).

"Fashion statement?" Beth joked, "Looks great…but I could just lend you some of my clothing, if you'd like. Tom gave Jim some old stuff to wear."

"Coffee?" Jim offered, holding up a third cup in Molly's direction.

Molly sighed, even laughing a little in relief.

"Where's Thomas?" she asked, "And Matthew?"

"Tom's taking Matthew to school." Beth explained, standing up and starting towards her sister, "Then he's off to work."

"Oh." Molly nodded.

"Follow me," Beth giggled, "I'll get you some clothes…"

Molly nodded again and shadowed Beth out of the room—but not before glancing at Jim who shrugged.

* * *

><p>"Your boyfriend and I had a good, long talk, Molly."<p>

Molly listened to younger sister's voice as she showered in the guestroom bathroom shower (which Jim had also apparently used earlier, as it was already wet, and _she _had slept somehow slept through).

Beth was seated on the guest bed, waiting as her older sister washed up.

"He explained to me how you're feeling. He told me how much you missed me, how much you talked about me—but were too afraid to call me. He said you said you didn't want to ruin my life with all of your problems…"

Molly heard Beth's voice hitch, but then regain it's momentum.

"…You don't have to feel that way, Molly. I really wish you didn't feel that way and—and what I mean is…_I'm sorry_. I'm sorry for the way I acted yesterday. I _was_ being over-sensitive. Maybe it _is_ all the hormones…But I don't want us to fight or _not f_ight but have us be angry at each other and not talking…I want it to be like it was _before._ When we were _kids _and you were my _big sis_, the _coolest _personin the_ world_, the one I wanted to be _just like_…_the only one who understood me_…"

Molly felt the tears rolling down her eyes already, warm shower water washing it away.

"…Well, what I'm saying is…keep in touch, Molly. We're _sisters_, for _god's sake! _...but we're also _friends._ I _want _us to be friends. I forgive you for everything and I hope you forgive _me_…I also hope you're glad you came to visit. _I_ am. If you hadn't come and hadn't brought Jim along, we never would've been able to work this all out. Jim seems like a really great guy. I'm so happy for you that you've found someone."

Molly turned off the water, stepping out of the shower into the steam and grabbing the towel left for her on the rack by Beth—_no_. By _Jim._

It was still slightly damp and it smelled like Jim.

"He explained everything to me, made me understand. Made me realize how much I _need_ you, how much _I owe you_…Make sure you hold on to this one. Don't let him get away. He's good. Funny, cute and _smart,_ too. You deserve the best, Molly, you deserve to be happy…and whenever you two do get 'officially' engaged, I want to know about it—_And _I wanna be Maid of Honor at the wedding, _okay?" _

Molly exited the bathroom to see her sister standing before her in front of the door.

Even though she was only wrapped in a towel and her hair was still soaking wet, Molly leaned forewords and hugged Beth who returned the embrace sincerely and wholeheartedly.

"I love you too, little sis." She said.

* * *

><p>Just what Jim had said to completely solve the problem between Molly and Beth, Molly would probably never know.<p>

"Did you _threaten_ her?" Molly had checked, just to be sure, smiling like it was a joke to be polite.

Jim had just laughed.

They were in the back of a taxi now, again, driving back towards London.

"Family gathering." Jim commented, "Not actually as boring as I'd thought…"

"If you thought it'd be boring, why did you go?" Molly inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"I knew I'd be able to have _some_ fun, at least." Jim shrugged, "I'm always the 'life of the party'."

Molly rolled her eyes.

After a few moments of silence and staring out opposite windows, she spoke up.

"…but what you said to Beth—or at least what she told me you said…none of it was…none of it was actually _true." _

"Pretty, white lies." Jim explained, eyes watching the rows of suburban houses roll by, "The _lifeblood_ of manners…You _did_ tell me to be on my _'best __behaviour'_, didn't you?"

"I did." Molly admitted, "And you _were_—for the most part, at least."

"'_For the most part'?"_ Jim repeated, in mock offense, turning to her and smiling a bit, "I was _perfect._ The perfect tamed tiger."

"You almost told Matthew Thomas wasn't his real father!" Molly exclaimed, "…and you were totally flirting with my sister's husband!"

"Was _not!"_ Jim denied, then reconsidered, "…well _maybe_…"

Molly shook her head, laughing just a little even though she knew she really _shouldn't _and that it was _wrong _(which, _consequently_, was why Jim's actions were funny and making her laugh in the first place).

"…_Thank you_." She said, looking out the window again, "What you _said_—even if it wasn't exactly all _true_…what you _did_…I never would've been able to work things out with her on my own _so_…Thank you. _So much._ Thank you."

"_I know_ how you can '_thank'_ me." She heard Jim reply.

She could see him staring at her, smirking, in the window reflection.

The taxi driver had apparently heard him too, turning around and pointing a finger at both Jim and Molly.

"No." he warned, preemptively "I'll be having none of that in my cab. It's too damn early in the morning."

Jim rolled his eyes, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wallet. From his wallet miraculously appeared money, numbered in the triple digits.

He handed them to the driver.

"Keep the change." He instructed, "…and keep your eyes on the road."

The taxi driver took the money and turned around, the car continuing along through the pretty suburbs in the springtime.

* * *

><p><strong>...Again. I hope it was 'fluff' enough. (haha I made a rhyme! lol)<strong>

**If not, I'm sorry.  
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**(And eating pizza...do they do that in England?)  
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**The original ending to this chapter, actually, was Molly and Jim sneaking out of Beth's house before dawn and Molly never reconciling with her. They then run into Paul on their way out who says nothing to her but looks at Jim wrong. Paul's car is a police car. And Molly says Paul never forgave her for looking just like their mother.  
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**But then I thought..._no_.  
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_**Too sad.  
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**Need_ happy!_  
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**Need FLUFF!  
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**(Need good reviews lol)  
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**And do you all want back to plot next chapter...or another sad attempt at me writing fluff...or something else (I was thinking a visit to Irene...or maybe the Revenge of Arthur, Conan and Doyle (and Ricoletti))...?  
><strong>

**Tell me.  
><strong>

**Or just say _something!_  
><strong>

**I feel like ya'll are dissapointed (discouraged? underwhelmed?) in me or something lol since I got less and shorter reviews last chapter.  
><strong>

**...I'm just insecure, lol.  
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**Pretty please, review?  
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**(I need to feed on my praise-driven confidence again).  
><strong>


	33. Median, Meaning and Logical Reasoning

**In 5...  
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**...4...  
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**...3...  
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**...2...  
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**...1...  
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**...and we're back!  
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**Hannah, here and ****I'm SO SORRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY everyone!  
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**I know it's been over a week!  
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**I didn't mean to make everybody wait, and I'm really really sorry! Please forgive me.  
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**Don't think I've been partying it up or anything or ignoring you all, I really wanted to write...  
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**...I just_ couldn't._  
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**I'd lent my favorite hairclip to a friend, one that I had worn for years that had become so sentimental to me, and then she lost it. **

**When I realized I'd never get it back I got sad and went through some withdrawal-like symptoms because when you get used to having something and then you don't have it anymore suddenly your homeostasis gets all messed up and I was in too bad a mood to write. ****  
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**Or do anything really lol.****  
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**I tried to find a new hairclip but none of them really worked (my hair is very particular (difficult), you see-curly ( _nappy_, even)).  
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**Oh well.  
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**Finally today I was able to write because there's only so long I could go on like this worrying about a stupid hairclip.  
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**I needed a distraction lol.  
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**...but I couldn't think of any filler that wasn't stupid and so I just went back to plot.  
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**Sorry for those who wanted filler.  
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**And sorry again for taking so damn long!  
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**I hope ya'll haven't forgotten about this story...  
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* * *

><p>There was an app on Jim's phone that allowed one to spy into 221b Baker Street via a camera hidden somewhere in a ceiling corner.<p>

For months, it had been 'broken' as said hidden camera had been confiscated by government agents.

But now the video feed was back online, watching the living room from between two books on a high bookshelf.

Jim stared into the phone.

Sherlock was pacing around the flat, walking over and on top of the furniture rather than around.

It worked alright until he stepped up on a table where a loose magazine caused him to slip and fall to the floor, backwards, causing a loud crash.

Quickly, Sherlock leaped up from the ground, brushed himself off and looking both ways to make sure nobody had seen.

Mrs. Hudson and John ran into the room from downstairs and upstairs, respectively, worried and confused looks on their faces.

But by the time they reach Sherlock, he was standing and it was the table lying sideways on the floor, the papers strewn all over the room (some still sailing slowly downwards in the air).

"Sherlock, what happened in here?" John demanded, glancing back and forth between the overturned table and Sherlock.

"The table." Sherlock stated, "It was in my way. So I moved it."

"Heavens, dear, are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"No, Mrs. Hudson, I am _not _'fine'!" Sherlock exclaimed, "I'm _bored!"_

Jim snickered to himself as he watched the live footage.

At least Sherlock was 'bored' without him.

That was _fair._

Because Jim, too, was _certainly_ bored.

He couldn't go _anywhere _in London, now, without being recognized. For _some unfathomable reason_ this really_ bothered_ Molly, who refused to be seen in public with him.

That confined all their activities to what could be done in a hotel (prank calls, the knocking version of ding-dong-ditch to other guests' doors, ordering room service and then sending it back to the kitchen) most of which were _boring _(and _'rude'_, said Molly, _'don't call attention to yourself, they'll get suspicious'_).

The only time Jim ever got to leave the room was when the talent agency called Richard Brooke in for an acting job (which was happening less and less because most casting calls were intimidated by such a handsome person (-_uncomfortable with someone who looked a little too like that creepy criminal from the news_)appearing to read lines).

And so _yes_, Jim was _bored._

(At least the Sherlock Cam was back on, though—_and Sherlock was as bored as he was.)_

Jim needed to _do something. _

(And _somehow_ it never even occurred to Jim that he could simply go out _alone_, without Molly, and have his 'fun' or do whatever he wanted, without her panicked, nervous 'nagging'.)

He and Sherlock were both _bored._

He and Sherlock_ both _knew how to solve this problem.

…and _yet_, here they both were, on separate ends of the city living like_ zombies,_ fed only on _distractions._

Sherlock was supposed to be a detective…so why didn't he just come find Jim, if he was _so_ 'bored', it's not like Jim was hiding or anything, he hadn't even left the city! It would be _too easy…_

But Sherlock Holmes was _arrogant._

The man who chased every _other_ interesting criminal wanted the_ most_ interesting criminal to chase _him._

And so 'chase' Jim _would._

…_wouldn't he? _

Wasn't that what Jim was _supposed _to do?

(Get Sherlock.)

_So why hadn't he yet? _

Jim looked up from his smartphone at the building across the street (actually, another hotel), most of its windows lit (and curtained. _Sorry, no peaking_.) in the evening darkness.

He wondered if the people in those rooms were as bored as he was and if they _were_, did they even _notice_...or were they just too _stupid?_

What kind of world would it be, Jim mused, if _everybody _was like him (or Sherlock, or Mycroft, or James even)?

Well it wouldn't be boring.

(And Jim wouldn't be _alone_—but then he wouldn't be _different_, either.)

"Jim, come inside…they'll see you."

Jim heard Molly's voice behind him, she must have been at the doorway to the balcony where he stood, leaning against the railing.

Jim rolled his eyes.

'They' wouldn't _see _him. 'They' weren't even _looking. _

(_Sherlock _wouldn't see him. _Sherlock_ wasn't even looking.)

And _he_ wasn't _hiding._

(Jim wasn't _hiding _and Sherlock wasn't _seeking._ What a boring, boring game...)

But Molly knew that.

She knew that_ and_ she knew that Jim was too high up and it was too dark for anyone to see him, anyway, (and even if they_ did _then what would they _do?_).

She just wanted an _excuse_ to call Jim back in to be with her, a logical reason to get him inside without having to step onto the balcony herself.

…A fear of heights, perhaps?

Jim turned around to face Molly (and she indeed was in the doorway, just behind the threshold to the balcony where the carpet touched the concrete).

His eyes were adjusted to the darkness outside and hers to the well-lit hotel room and so they both had to squint to see each other (both looking like shadows).

"No, they won't." Jim dismissed, with a little laugh, "…come outside."

Molly remained in the doorway.

"…too chilly out there for me." She refused, also with a little laugh, "I haven't got my jacket."

(It was almost the end of April.)

"Take mine." Jim offered.

He shed his suit jacket, then holding it out to Molly who didn't move.

"Room service'll probably be here soon, we should—"

But before Molly could complete her sentence, Jim had hopped up onto the ledge of the balcony behind him, sitting on it, adjudicating himself to a comfortable position.

Molly gasped, "Jim! What are you doing?"

Jim grinned.

"…What would you do if I _fell_, Molly?" he asked, wobbling his body and waving his arms for effect, "…what would you do if _I jumped?"_

"I would…I…" Molly fumbled, but then shook her head, "Just come back inside."

Then the wind snatched up Jim's jacket from right out his hand (or maybe Jim just let it go), carrying it away from the balcony and the hotel and Jim and Molly.

They watched it whip violently in the air and then fall diagonally downwards towards the streets below, disappearing into the dark.

"Oops." Jim shrugged, hopping down from the railing.

He went over to the doorway, Molly moved to allow him through into the hotel room.

Jim then walked over to the small, circular wooden table in the room where Molly had set down her purse and kicked it over.

And to Jim, for _some unfathomable reason_, a table on the floor was _hilarious. _

But to _Molly_, of course, it was just confusing.

"I was _bored._" Jim explained, turning back to her after he had finished laughing and answering the question she wasn't going to bother to ask this time.

Molly walked over to the overturned table, picked up her purse and set it on the bed before lifting the table back upright.

"We _do_ eat there, you know…" she reminded, plopping down next to her purse.

And Jim was about to make a clever comment when the phone in his hand buzzed.

_Follow-up interview tomorrow? 11am the coffee shop._

_-Kitty _

Jim read the text.

_Yes! _

Finally an excuse, a logical reason (since when did he need _those?_) for him to leave the hotel room!

…but Jim was _not_ going back to that coffee shop with Kitty Riley.

The last time he had been there with Kitty, the barista had given him a dirty look, obviously assuming that he was cheating on his girlfriend ( that painfully shy and awkward but still very nice girl from the hospital) with this new flashy, more fashionable office worker.

_I can't leave my hotel. I've been hiding in my room for days. Sherlock Holmes is looking for me._

_If he finds me, he'll kill me. _

_Come talk to me at the hotel. I'll send you the address once I find some stationary or something with it on it._

_-Rich_

Jim sent the reply message.

_So much for leaving the hotel…_

"What are you doing?" Molly inquired.

Jim glanced up at her from the phone, she had stood up and was heading towards him.

Swiftly, he exited the text messaging application and returned to the Sherlock Cam.

"Look!" Jim declared, holding up the screen to Molly's eyes, "Our favorite reality show's back on!"

Molly stared into the phone.

John and Mrs. Hudson were picking up magazines, and newspapers and other papers from the already cluttered floor as Sherlock paced around, sometimes stepping on items they were trying to lift.

"I can't believe this…" Molly said.

"I know, isn't it _exciting_!" Jim agreed, turning the screen back towards him.

He sat down on the bed and Molly sat next to him so they could both watch the app.

"I thought the camera was gone..." Molly replied, "I_ saw_ Sherlock's brother and some of the men who took you go into Sherlock's flat and take the camera away."

"Well, Mycroft must've put it back, then." Jim figured.

"Why would he do _that?_" Molly asked, "He _knew _what it was. _He looked right into it!_ And he probably even knew _you're _the one who put it there…so_ why _would he put it back?"

"Sibling rivalry, I suppose…" Jim answered.

"But they're brothers!"

"That's what I said, isn't it, _'sibling rivalry'…" _

"No, I mean Sherlock's brother, um, Mycroft- he knows it was your camera, right?"

"Right."

"But he still put it there, knowing you'd be able to watch Sherlock…_and he even let you out of his custody!_ He caught you and _could _have stopped you from ever going after Sherlock again…but he just let you go."

"Right."

"…So _why_. Why would he do that? He's Sherlock's older brother! Isn't he _supposed_ to protect him? Isn't he supposed be on _his side?"_

Jim chuckled at that, putting the cellphone down on the bed between Molly and turning to her.

"People like Mycroft like to keep _neutral_ as long as possible," he explained, "It's simply more _convenient _that way. They _never_ pick a side until they _absolutely have to_—and even _then_ they're only ever really on their own."

"'People_ like Mycroft'?"_ Molly repeated, "…you mean the _government, p_eople in _power?..._or people like _you?"_

"Well, both, really…it's more _fun_ to play on both sides of the field…" Jim decided, a smile growing on his face, "…and play for both teams."

He raised his eyebrows with exaggerated suggestion.

Molly allowed herself to giggle.

_This _was progress.

From gay to bisexual.

(Or, rather, from Sherlock to 'the exception'.)

Had_ she_ done that?

Molly couldn't say that she wasn't just a little bit _proud_ of herself.

(Still, of course, it could be 'all a lie' or 'all part of the plan'…but as long as Jim was_ here_, with _her_ and _not _with Sherlock (or going around killing people, committing crimes, etc) Molly would be proud because this was a _good thing._ And even if she was 'just a distraction', she was a _particularly good_ distraction, the _particularly good distraction_ making Jim Moriarty _'be good'_.)

* * *

><p>A round table, originating in the Arthurian legends, was meant to promote an atmosphere of equality and cooperation between all those who sat around it.<p>

However, despite its shape (which was actually a little more oval than circular) all the 'knights of the round table' were all arguing as they sat in secret and locked backroom (not shady at all, actually, very nicely decorated) of the Swiss meeting hall.

Sitting back in the stiff-cushioned chair, Mycroft watched the warfare he liked to avoid between the representatives from the West and the rest.

"You need to tell your leader that any further nuclear testing will not be tolerated." The man from the United States warned, standing up and pointing a finger across the table towards his target.

"I did not come to this meeting to be told what to do." The target, the representative from Iran, countered, also standing, "I will leave if you offend me again."

The two glared at each other until they were both ushered to sit back down by those sitting next to them.

"If your country makes nuclear weapons they will inevitably fall into the hands of terrorists." The Israeli representative declared.

"_You_ are the terrorists!" The man from Pakistan exclaimed jumping up, "NATO is the terrorist! You all go around the globe like thugs, taking over all the other countries, killing their people and stealing their resources. You all have your own nuclear weapons and yet you forbid anyone else from having them, leaving the rest of us defenseless and at your mercy!"

"How dare you!" The man from Israel snapped.

He too jumped up from his chair, along with the representative from India.

"Your government is entirely composed of terrorists!" he responded.

And then everyone was talking (shouting) at once; everyone standing up, pounding the round table with fists and pointing fingers across it at each other.

It was all a very dramatic show.

One that Mycroft did not enjoy in the least.

He was one of the only two people still seated and he looked over when he saw the other rise, clearing his throat before speaking.

"Gentlemen, please calm down." James said, "Perhaps it is the altitude but no one is thinking with a clear head and an open mind. I suggest we all take a recess now and resume after we have all refreshed ourselves."

His voice was soft, barely audible over the uproar—which silenced upon his preceding cough.

And everyone listened to James Moriarty as he spoke.

Mycroft, impressed, nodded his head approvingly as the representatives murmured their agreement to James's suggestion.

Mycroft had assumed that James was only at the conference for the play-acted economic summit they had performed earlier that week, just to keep up its appearances as he was an authority on money and monetary policy.

But as it turned out, the Swiss hosts had specifically requested that James stayed for the latent purpose of the meeting as well.

He consulted for their banks (pretty shady, actually) and some of the rumors (surely _completely_ baseless!) circulating around the table indicated that James had secretly purchased North Korea (_strange…_).

Mycroft decided that he'd get Anthea to check into that.

Until this gathering, Mycroft had not known just how extensive James's influence really was (he knew James was rich and good business man, but he had thought James had given all that up for the simple life of a teacher)…

…but he_ had_ known James since they were tops of their classes at university, professionally (because _people like them_ didn't _have_ friends), and knew that James was a humble and private man (_kindred spirit?_), which he had respected and (until this gathering) had no logical reason to _suspect._

And still, Mycroft didn't 'suspect', James to be anything more than someone who could prove to be a helpful ally in the future (regardless of any little white collar crimes he was never even investigated for).

"Shall we proceed?" James continued, gesturing towards and approaching the door which he held open for everyone as they exited the room.

They all knew what he had _meant_ by 'refreshed ourselves'.

Their generous Swiss hosts had a _variety of options_ open to guests of this clandestine meeting at the complementary lodgings.

And once all the 'knights templar' (_'knights templar' _because if any men secretly did control the world, they were indeed in this room) were gone, James was left still holding the door for Mycroft.

"After you, sir" Mycroft allowed (maybe even bowing a little, for the fun of it) and before James could object, he added, "I insist."

"Why thank you, sir." James accepted, (also maybe bowing a little bit, too, just for fun) releasing the door and walking into the hallways ahead.

* * *

><p>Although Molly had decided to 'risk' eating breakfast downstairs at the hotel restaurant with Jim before work…<p>

…she _still _had to have a newspaper open, to quickly pull up and cover her face just in case somebody she knew _happened to randomly come to this particular hotel at eight in the morning for no logical reason whatsoever. _

The table was in the corner (and the farthest from the window as possible) and even had a cloth for the breakfast hours (since this was a classy hotel, after all).

There was both a menu and a buffet option, but just as Jim had predicted, Molly had stuck to continental.

She was sitting across from him, nibbling on some kind of pastry with a fruit(-like) filling, crumbs crumbling on to the newspaper she held with her other hand.

Maybe she was just trying to save money…which was unnecessary as Jim had switched the room over to one of his pseudonym's credit cards ages ago—although he had 'forgotten' to tell Molly this and was still waiting for her to _say _something about that.

But Jim wasn't one to _judge_, he wasn't even eating that morning, himself.

He was saving his appetite for when Kitty came because although Richard Brooke had a girlfriend…he kinda-sorta had maybe a little bit of a crush on the 'intrepid reporter'.

(And that barista could glare all she wanted too, Jim was bored! He needed a distraction and, besides, everyone knew that heterosexual males (like Rich was) were_ never_ satisfied with just _one_ woman. They were like_ animals! _Always _prowling_ for more females to _conquer._ They just couldn't control themselves! ...and so 'cheating' was _inevitable. _That's what men do.)

Because he wasn't eating and he was just _sitting there_…

(still in his pajamas, _for god's sake!_ He hadn't even bothered to get dressed to come downstairs. 'Oh how the mighty have fallen'. He was really in a _rut._)

…doing _nothing _(bored. bored. bored.) Jim watched Molly eat.

_This_ was _progress._

From being embarrassed to eat in front of any man she was interested in, even 'Jim from IT', until midway through the second date…

…to munching away abstinent-mindedly on a danish as she read the newspaper.

Jim licked his finger and then collected the crumbs that had fallen onto the print, placing them all into his mouth once he had gathered enough.

This, of course, made it difficult for Molly to read.

She looked up at Jim, who grinned.

"So, what's the scoop?" he asked.

"There's so many articles about Sherlock." Molly said, setting down the half-eaten pastry on its small plate.

"He's quite the celebrity now, isn't he?" Jim commented, leaning back in his chair, "…_everybody_ loves him. But _we_ saw him _first._ _We_ liked Sherlock Holmes _before_ it was cool."

"Not _'everybody'_ loves him." Molly disagreed, looking down at the newspaper, shaking her head.

"I'm sure not a lot of the criminals he gets locked away love him like I do. But they're all just _sore losers_. They—"

"_No_. Not everybody loves Sherlock. Not everybody even believes he's _real._ Somebody's saying he's a _fake…"_

Jim gasped.

"_Who?_ Who would _dare_ say such a thing!"

Molly's eyes rose back up from the printed text and pictures of the paper, staring at Jim seriously.

"Richard Brook." She said, "He's claiming Sherlock made up all the crimes he solved, committed some of them even…"

"I'll cut out his tongue for telling such lies!" Jim declared, pounding the table.

The plate with the pastry shook a little and any remaining crumbs tumbled from the table.

"Just _stop_, I know it's you!" Molly snapped, folding the newspaper shut sharply, "You sent me those videos, _remember? _They had that name on them! I'm not _stupid."_

"Ah, well, you caught me, Molly." Jim sighed, "Now I'll have to eat my words and cut out my own tongue."

He pulled a butter-knife out of a folded napkin and brought it up to his tongue.

"Why are you doing this?" Molly demanded, "_Why _would you call Sherlock a _fake?_ I know it's not_ all_ you're going to do. I know it's _got_ to be part of _some big plan _you have…so _why?_ What _is _it? _What _are you going to _do_ to him?"

"Why does it matter?" Jim shrugged, knife paused, "It's not like _you'd _be able to _stop_ me."

He tried to stab the newspaper with the butter-knife, but it was a _butter-knife_ and so although it punctured the paper it did_ not_ cut through the tablecloth _nor_ the table (which it clanged down onto).

"It's not even worth it." Molly stated, "All this with Sherlock. There's no point…and if you_ really _want to hurt him, all you'd have to do is just leave him _alone._ He'd get bored and be sad. _That_ could be your 'revenge' or whatever you want with him."

"You don't know Sherlock _at all_ if you honestly believe _that_." Jim scoffed, "You've read all those stories about him and his cases, he's solves a new one practically everyday now, all of them high profile. He's been_ busy_, he hasn't been _bored._ _I've _been bored. And that's just_ not fair."_

"You're right." Molly agreed, "That _isn't_ fair. You're _so bored_ without him and he _doesn't even_ _notice you're gone_. So why waste all your time and energy on him if he doesn't do the same?"

"Darling, it's what I do." Jim replied, as if the statement was obvious (which it actually _was_ and so if Molly hadn't learned that by now then she _was_ stupid).

"_You can stop."_ Molly said, "…you can _change._"

Jim snorted.

"Do you think you can _'change'_ me, Molly?" he inquired, sarcastically, "Be the angel that finally redeems the devil? The good girl that fixes the broken, brooding bad boy? Do you think can _save_ me, Molly, _do you?_"

"No." Molly answered, "You can't change people. You can't make people change. I can't make you do anything you don't want to…just like you can' _you_ can't make _Sherlock _be as _obsessed _with you as _you_ are with _him._"

"Now_ I_ wouldn't say _that_." Jim countered, "I can be very persuasive. I could_ force_ Sherlock to chase me—_if I wanted to_. But I don't even _have_ to. I can just make him _want_ to chase me, if I want to, I can make him want _me_. You of all people should know I can do _that._"

"Well you don't know Sherlock at all if you honestly believe that." Molly responded, "You'll never make him do anything he doesn't want to. He's stronger than that…And you, you'll always be _just another criminal_ in a long list of cases. And even if you're his_ favorite_ one, you'll_ never_ be his _only _one. You'll never be _the one._ If you _disappear_, he'll have so many other _distractions_ to _replace_ you that _he won't even notice you're gone._ Because no matter how much you chase him in circles, his life'll never revolve around you the way yours revolves around him."

"…well you sound like you're speaking from experience." Jim smirked.

His 'deduction' was nothing but a _deflection _(…and perhaps if it had been more of an analyzed insight, he would have realized that she couldn't have_ possibly_ been speaking from experience with Sherlock and that there was actually only _one_ person she could have been alluding to.)

"_I am."_ Molly affirmed, nodding, "And I know that you can't make somebody _care._ Either they _do _or they _don't._"

* * *

><p>"If this continues, there will be a <em>war<em>…" Mycroft predicted.

"There's_ always_ a war." James shrugged.

They walked through the back hallways where all rooms were soundproof and _not_ detailed on the public map of the building.

"We've worked too hard to keep our ground _neutral_ and our people _safe_," Mycroft insisted, "to allow this _always war_ to touch _our _world—which _will _happen _if this continues_."

"Well, maybe it's best we do our negotiations _separately_, then." James suggested, "This meeting was nothing but a _dog fight_. Two rabid animals in the same ring can do nothing but fight. _Separately_, however, the dogs _can_ be _tamed._"

" '_Divide and conquer'_?" Mycroft inferred.

"Yes." James affirmed, "'Great_ minds think alike'_."

"I know the representatives from the US and Israel." Mycroft stated, "I'll talk to them."

"You've got the easy job then." James laughed, "…that leaves me with the one from Iran."

"Oh, don't look _so_ disappointed." Mycroft chided, "The Iranian's 'bark' is bigger than his 'bite', he only lashed out because he was backed into a corner and wanted to break off the 'leash'. If you 'feed' him I assure you he will not 'bite the hand'."

"Alright." James smiled.

And he did not roll his eyes.

(…even though the only other person he knew to get that _'punny' _was his younger brother Jim.)

* * *

><p>Kitty Riley was <em>stupid.<em>

If she honestly believed Richard Brooke to be an out of work actor, on the run and hiding from fake, murderous genius Sherlock Holmes…

…then why wouldn't she find it _questionable_ that Richard was staying in an expensive hotel room?

Because she was _stupid._

And if she honestly believed that Richard Brooke didn't have a girlfriend…

…then why wouldn't she find it _questionable_ that Richard had both men and women's clothing in said expensive hotel room?

Because she was _stupid._

Stupid…

…or she just didn't _care. _

And all she wanted was a good _story_, be it strange _truth_ or strange _fiction. _

Kitty Riley sat across from Jim Moriarty—no, _Richard Brooke_, now, at the little table in his hotel room.

Her tape-recorder was on the table, recording their conversation as she took notes onto her laptop.

Also on the table was the newspaper, which Jim opened and slid over to her, pointing at a particular article.

"Oh, did you like it?" Kitty asked, "It's just a short preview, but I thought it was clever. It has to be a hook, you know. Something to draw the readers in so they buy the paper when the whole story comes out."

"You spelled my name wrong…" Jim—no, _Rich_ complained, "It's 'Brooke'…with an 'e'. Not 'Brook'."

"Sorry…" Kitty shrugged, "But I can't change it now. It's already been published like that. I've just gotta keep going with that spelling."

**(A/N: aka my reaction (excuse) when I realized I had made the same (but opposite) mistake.) **

"But 'Brooke' with an 'e' looks fancier!" Jim groaned, "And if everyone thinks I'm fancy, they'll be more likely to believe me!"

"They're going to believe you." Kitty stated, "Stop worrying."

Jim rested his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.

"I'm just—I'm just so scared…" he sobbed, "Mr. Holmes's is gonna kill me now that I've gone public with this…and _what if_ nobody believes me, what if they call _me_ the liar, _not_ Sherlock Holmes!"

"There, there, Richie." Kitty consoled, reaching across the table to pat Jim on the shoulder, "Like I said, stop worrying. They're going to believe you. I mean, what's more likely a _genius_ who _somehow_ knows _everything_…or some bloke who just made it all up to make himself look good?"

"Yeah, I guess…" Jim nodded, looking up at her.

"_Besides_…" Kitty continued, "_Everybody _needs stories. Real life is just too boring for most people, and so everybody needs distractions, needs something to keep them _excited._ And so that's where_ I_ come in. It's my _job_ to tell them these stories and keep them distracted and happy. And it keeps _me_ distracted and happy, as well, since it's always exciting chasing after a good story."

"So you're a storyteller." Jim smiled, "Like me."

"Yes I am." Kitty affirmed, grinning, "I'm a storyteller because everybody loves a good story. I'm just giving the people what they want… And even if it_ was_ all _lies_, everything you're telling me, the people are _hungry._ They'd eat 'the Scandal of Sherlock Holmes, deceptive detective' right up. They wouldn't even _care."_

* * *

><p>When Mycroft had finished<em> reasoning<em> with the American representative (who was being very _reasonable_ because he was getting a 'massage' from a pretty Swiss 'masseuse' at the time), he returned to the main hall of the building, just outside the auditorium (and nowhere near the backroom).

Because_ publically _there was no meeting or event occurring, there was also no media presence, and the long room of long benches, long windows and a single long front desk, was all but empty.

All _but._

Over to one side of the long room, away from the windows, stood James.

He was conversing with the Iranian representative, as well as the representatives from Pakistan and Afghanistan.

Mycroft wondered just what James was saying to them, and if it would be the _reason_ that there wasn't _a war._

* * *

><p>But Molly Hooper <em>wasn't<em> stupid.

She came to the hotel after work and knew that Jim had had '_company'._

To be fair, of course, Jim had made no effort to clean up after Kitty's _'visit', _leaving the all but empty take-away boxes of food she had brought on the table and even messing up the bedsheets (which the maid had changed and tucked in, all her hard work for nothing) just to see if Molly would _say something._

She _did. _

"You brought that journalist here, didn't you? The one who wrote that article."

Molly entered the room, tossing her purse onto the dresser and kicking off her shoes.

"Maybe…_or maybe_ I just procured the services of a sophisticated call girl."

He was still sitting at the table, picking at one of the boxes of Chinese foods, stabbing at the meat with a chopstick but not eating it.

"I stopped for coffee on the way…brought you some, too."

She set the full cup down on the table in front of him, next to the meal, and tossed her empty one into the nearby trashbin before sitting down across from him.

"Thanks."

Jim grinned, picked it up and taking a long sip.

It had been reduced lukewarm on the trip over. Cat hairs stuck by static electricity meant she had stopped at her flat to feed Toby.

And the label meant she had gone to the coffee shop they_ always_ went to.

That nosy barista must've said something to Molly about Jim and the 'mystery woman' he was 'cheating' on her with.

With that and the article from that morning, Molly must have 'put two and two together'.

"I have to ask you…how did this all _start?_ The whole thing with Sherlock. What happened to make you so interested in him? How did it begin?"

"Well, _once upon a time_, Sherlock and I met up in the boy's locker-room—"

"Jim, I'm _serious_…"

The look Molly gave him was almost_ pleading_, she _really _wanted to_ know_.

Jim wondered why she even _cared._

"I am too. It's all true, the story I'm about to tell you. So you do you promise to believe me, Molly?"

Jim looked Molly in the eyes, _seeming_ to mean what he was saying, and she nodded, although she never really knew for sure.

Every one of Jim's expressions was carefully planned, _forced_ even. He didn't seem to have natural facial movements of his own.

"Okay…"

"_Okay._ We were in a locker room. The locker-room of the very same pool I almost blew Sherlock up in a couple years back. I was fourteen. And like all teenagers, I felt like the _whole world_ was_ out to get me_ and _nobody understood me_. I was_ right_, too. It was true. I was all alone and I didn't have any friends. _In fact,_ I had just killed the kid who _could_ have been my 'friend' but didn't _want_ to be. I think—or at least I _thought_, at the time and for a while afterwards too, that Sherlock could've been my friend too _if _he'd _wanted _to, or _I'd _wanted too. Now I know better. People like me and Sherlock don't have friends, just enemies…and so that's what Sherlock became. _Enemy mine._"

"But what happened?"

"I looked in the mirror and saw my reflection. And so did he. Years and years of stupid, boring people and no one understanding me and Sherlock took one look at me and _knew._ He knew what I had done. And more than that, he knew _what_ I was. He knew I was like _him_…and I think that must've scared him too, because he wouldn't say anything to me. He just left. He just left me there _all alone _again. And it was worse that time because I finally knew what I was _missing_. I _knew._ I knew he was like _me_. I knew_ what_ he was—I just had to find out _who._ And I did, it took me years but I did. I finally learned the name _Sherlock Holmes." _

"If he's the only one who understands you, then why do you want to be his _enemy?"_

"Because I don't want to be _nothing_ to him. Just another boring _nobody_ in a world of billions to him. I have to be _something_ to him. And people like us don't _have_ friends, didn't you _listen?"_

"That's not _true._ Sherlock has friends. Sherlock has John Watson."

"Sherlock _changed!_ And I'll never forgive him for that. He and I had the most _perfect_ symmetry…and then he went and _changed_ and set the whole _world_ off balance!"

"Well, it's not like _you _don't have friends!"

"I _don't."_

"You _'don't'?_ What am_ I_, then... _nothing…_?"

Molly was staring down at the other box of food that had been Kitty's, she wished she hadn't thrown away her coffee so she could have focused on that, rather than the fact that the 'mystery woman' the barista had warned her about had been here.

Well, _of course_, Molly wasn't Jim's _friend._ And if she wasn't even his friend then she_ definitely_ wasn't his _girlfriend,_ either.

She was just the only woman _stupid _enough to waste her time visiting Jim in his hotel room for what were really just 'hook-ups'. _Of course_, she didn't mean _anything_ to him.

It was 'for the best' Molly had reasoned, if not for herself then for the 'greater good' (Sherlock)… but now it was obvious that Jim wasn't going to stop hunting Sherlock, which meant she wasn't even a _proper _distraction.

So_ why _was she even here with Jim, then?

…because she _cared._

And even if _he_ didn't,_ she_ still _did. _

"Oh, don't look so _disappointed_, Molly…"

Jim pulled the foodbox (_distraction_) out from under Molly's gaze, picking it up along with his own, getting up, and throwing them both in the trash.

She saw him standing by the bin and noticed what he was wearing.

The old, baggy clothes he had been 'leant' by Thomas (which Molly had meant to return along with the ones she had been 'leant' by her sister—after, of course, washing and folding them).

Not _his._

Jim was 'in costume'.

This is what he had worn for that woman—probably the journalist (whatever her name was, Molly couldn't remember)— which meant that at least he was 'playing a character' for her (Richard Brook?_...probably…) _instead of 'being himself'.

But what did _that_ mean?

…and did _that _mean Molly was _special_ for seeing the _'real'_ Jim (if there actually _was_ such a thing)?

"If I'm not your 'friend'…then why even bother talking to me? It's not like I'm _useful_ to you or anything…"

Jim shrugged.

"Because your _there."_

He walked back over to the table, leaning back in his chair once he sat down and propping his feet up on the table.

Molly stood up.

She went to the bed, pulling at the rumpled sheets and began to make it, not facing Jim as she spoke.

"Well that's what friends do. They're there for each other. People need each other…"

"There is _no such thing _as 'need'. Only _want."_

Jim was watching her make the bed.

It was a funny sight to see, actually, because the only other person (excluding people who were paid to do so, of course, because they don't count) Jim had seen make his bed for him was his older brother James back when they were children.

This was definitely _better._

(Especially because he had a pretty nice view of her behind as she bent.)

"…and so you 'want' to destroy Sherlock. _Why?_ You still haven't given a good _reason._"

Molly completed her chore and turned back around towards Jim, eyeing him suspiciously and accusingly.

Jim snorted, rising slowly and rolling his eyes.

"Since when do I owe _you_ an _explanation?_ You're just a little _mouse._ You have _nothing_ to do with what Sherlock and I _have."_

"Yes I _do. _You involved me in all of this when you decided to _use_ me to get to Sherlock. I have a_ right_ to know!"

"We were both trying to make Sherlock _jealous._ I used _you_, you used _me_. It's _fair._ I don't owe you _anything..._In fact, _actually_, I don't need an _excuse_ for anything either. I do what I want because I want to._"_

No reason.

No logic.

Just_ emotion. _

Jim approached Molly, holding up a hand to touch her face.

She jerked away.

Jim gave Molly a sneer that meant _'you can only say no because I let you say no'_ but still, he lowered his hand, returning to the table which he leaned against.

"Why do you want to hurt him?"

'_Him'_ meant _Sherlock._

'Him' _always_ meant Sherlock.

(They could write a dictionary, Jim and Molly. They had their own language. And _every word_ was 'Sherlock'… _Always_ 'Sherlock'.)

"I want to set the world right again. Sherlock put it_ wrong_ it when he decided to become normal and get himself a friend. I'm just restoring balance to the world…it's for the 'greater good', really. It's not like I _want _Sherlock to be gone. I'm just being _selfless. _A good Samaritan."

Now, _Molly_ snorted and rolled her eyes.

Jim smirked.

"I _lie_ to myself too, sometimes." He said, "Isn't that what people _do?_"

"Not people like _you_._"_ Molly replied, "…So why, _really_, do you want to hurt Sherlock?"

"Because he hurt me. He hurt my feelings. And I want revenge…don't you?"

"No. I _don't."_

"_Yes you do._ Sherlock Holmes _finally _decides to make a 'friend' and he chooses that stupid, defective soldier of all people? Not _you_, not me…and we were _right there,_ but he didn't even _notice._ He didn't even _care!_ Doesn't that just make you _burn?" _

"…it makes me sad, yes…but I don't want to_ hurt_ him for that. I don't want 'revenge' or anything. And_ you_ shouldn't either. You should just move on. _I have."_

(_As if_ Jim could (would) actually just 'move on'. Yeah, that and he's a 'selfless good Samaritan'.)

Jim decided to laugh for a long time, wiping tears that weren't there from his eyes and slapping his knees.

When he finally stopped, catching his breath, he saw Molly staring at him expressionless.

"…_oh_…you weren't joking…_Well then_, Molly. If _you've _moved on I really _am_ a selfless good Samaritan."

"I really_ have_ moved on. I don't have a crush on Sherlock anymore. _It was silly, _I got over it…but that doesn't mean I'm not still his friend—even if he's not _mine._"

"Hmm...so you're_ Sherlock's_ 'friend'...but you're shagging _me_. So whose side are you on?"

Jim sneered, raising an eyebrow and folding his arms.

Molly shook her head.

"Neither."

"This is a war, private. You've got to pick a side."

"I _won't._ You _can't_ make me chose between the two of you...and it doesn't _need_ to be a 'war'. You _don't _need to fight him."

"But I _want_ to, so I _will._..and I _can_ make you chose, if I _wanted_ to. If I _cared_ enough to. But right now, I don't _need_ to. So _I_ won't. _Sherlock_ is the only one I _want._ I don't want anyone _else_, just _him_. I don't _'need'_ anyone else. I don't have _friends_ because I don't want _or_ need them. They're just crutches for the weak, hive-minded people who don't know how to_ breathe_ other than collectively. It's so _annoying_ it's not even adorable anymore, it's just _disgusting._ I'd _never_ lower myself to _that."_

Molly sighed.

"…you know, Jim, you don't need to feel that you're _alone_—"

Instantly Jim's face changed from amused to angry.

"_Don't_ try to pity me. I don't want _your _sympathy. It's _beneath_ me. I won't be pitied by someone so _pitiful…_You think you understand me, but you don't. You can feel sorry for _yourself._ You _should_. I know _I_ do. You have the most _miserable, pitiful little existence in this world_. You're _nothing_—but _I'm_ not. So don't pity me."

(But Jim didn't _understand_ the difference between 'sympathy' and 'empathy'. And if he'd ever truly felt either, he wouldn't know how to define them.)

"I'm not_ 'pitying' _you! I'm trying to _help _you!"

"If you want to 'help' me, then you can _help me_ _get Sherlock."_

"_No._ I won't help you hurt him. I won't help you hurt _anyone."_

"Why not? You _scared_, mouse?"

"_No._ It's _wrong..._and_ I_ don't have to _hurt people_ to be happy."

Jim sighed, shaking his head and laughing.

"_See_, this is why I don't _have_ 'friends'. They're never there for me when I need them."

"I'm your _friend_, Jim, even if you're not _mine._ And I'm here for you if you need me. Maybe not when you _want_ me, if you want me to hurt Sherlock, or someone else…or even _yourself_—but I'm _always _there, I'll _always_ be there for you if you _need _me."

With that, Molly turned to go, picking up her purse from the dresser on her way towards the door.

It had already closed with Molly on the other side when Jim asked:

"Why would I need _you?"_

And the silence answered:

_No reason, no reason at all._

* * *

><p>Finally, after a week of official unofficial meeting and un official reasoning, the summit in Switzerland was finally over.<p>

This of course didn't mean that the _problem_was solved… it just meant it was 'put on pause'.

At least for now.

And Mycroft found that it was quite a coincidence that both he and James ended up on the same plane back to England seeing as how they both could have afforded and gotten their own more private methods of transportation.

...or maybe it wasn't a coincidence.

Maybe Mycroft had planned it specifically so it would 'just happen' to happen.

He knew that despite how rich James was he didn't want people to know how rich he was and so would actually fly economy on an average airline.

The flight attendant bumped James up to first class.

Mycroft, once in a while, would lower himself to flying with the general public (_ew, commoners_)...but never second class.

The attendant led James to his new seat.

"Here you are, sir."

James sat down on the larger and more comfortable seat (leg room!), putting his briefcase underneath.

Mycroft removed the open newspaper from his face, folding it on his lap.

_Dramatic?_

Yes.

(But Mycroft, too, got bored, he had to have his fun somehow…)

"Well, well, well, Mr. Holmes." James greeted, turning to him, "We meet again."

_Also dramatic. _

(He too knew how to 'play the game'.)

"How coincidental." Mycroft agreed, turning to him.

"So do you just enjoy my company?" James asked, "…or do you have _business _to discuss?"

"_Both,_ actually, I must admit." Mycroft answered, "I commandeered a plane—well a seat for you. Therefore, you should assume that you are important to me."

"To _you?_" James chuckled, "Or to the government?"

"You're money and expertise is of importance to the government," Mycroft clarified, with a smile, "You are just my old friend."

(_'Friend' _having a very flexible meaning.)

"Well I'm glad I have 'friends in high places', even if just for the _perks._" James stated, gesturing around the fancier first class area of the plane.

"What are friends for, Mr. Moriarty?" Mycroft nodded, "…But expensive gifts and political favors?"

"Information." James added.

"Ah, yes." Mycroft accepted, "You've read my mind…I wanted to ask you what your how you conversation with the Iranian representative went. Was he reasonable?"

"More than reasonable, he was 'tame' as you said he would be. I just 'fed' him and his did exactly what I wanted him to."

"The on behalf of the British government I'll have to commend you for your effort and success in preventing a war. Why is it again, Mr. Moriarty, that you went into business rather than politics?"

"I didn't realize that I _hadn't._ I thought those two were the same thing."

James laughed.

Mycroft laughed.

"Yes, well..._diplomacy_ then."

"Diplomacy isn't just part of business and politics. It's part of _daily life."_

"Well one has no business going into diplomacy empty handed. You always need a 'bone' to throw to the 'dog'."

"Or, _even better_, a piece of _meat." _

"And what 'piece of meat' did you 'throw' the representative? Did you pay him off…or buy his whole country?"

Mycroft studied James's face.

He made no reaction to the comment but that didn't 'confirm or deny' the _rumors._

Every one of James's expressions was carefully planned, _forced _even. He didn't seem to have natural facial movements of his own.

"Neither. I gave him no money nor promised to give him any money."

"So something _else_, then? Something more _valuable_, more _powerfu l_than money..."

"Money itself has no intrinsic value. It's only worth what value we place on it… _Anything_ can have value—if we _make_ it have value..._ Anything_ can have meaning—if we give it meaning. We humans ourselves created the concept of meaning. A is _never _just 'A'."

"Oh, I remember _that!_ That was part of your thesis. You used part of it for your speech on artificial inflation. You think nobody listens. _I_ listened. Do you honestly believe, though, that money is actually _worthless?"_

"Worthless, yes, money is only worth what people _think _it is worth. In it of itself, it _is _worthless—_But don't_ _let that my saying that put me on that list suspected communists and enemies of the state, now, that I know you intelligence workers have._ I tell you this, Mr. Holmes, because I want you and our country to _use _it. With that simple knowledge we can rule the world."

"But don't we already?"

"That depends on your definition of 'we'."

"You know _exactly _who I mean by 'we', Mr. Moriarty."

"Yes I do, Mr. Holmes. By 'we' you mean the people like _us."_

* * *

><p><strong>I can't seem to keep them happy together, now can I?<strong>

**What's wrong with me?  
><strong>

**lol.  
><strong>

**I hope that doesn't make you guys not happy...  
><strong>

**And yes, quasi-conspiracy theorist I am, I do beleive the world is ruled by the richest buisnessmen and the graduates of the most elite and oldest universities and colleges like Harvard, Yale, Caimbridge(?), etc.  
><strong>

**And of course buisness and politics are the same thing, I don't think that there is a government in the world that isn't corrupt and that money is what determines every government's decisions.  
><strong>

**...which all, of course, leads to my own personal philosophy of 'if you can't do anything about it, just live your life and be thankful that you're comfortable'.  
><strong>

**Easy for me, still, since I'm middle class in a first world country.  
><strong>

**I don't need a lot to be happy. ****  
><strong>

**Internet access.  
><strong>

**I don't need any more money than I can use (which is why I don't understand the superwealthy just collecting millions and billions they can't possibly spend, most of it just sitting there reproducing interest that they're not actually interested in enough to use...****  
><strong>

**lol  
><strong>

**Maybe it's just sour grapes, though.  
><strong>

**Please review?  
><strong>


	34. Accounts of Moral Bankruptcy

**Well I'm trying to get back to a regular posting schedule. **

**_...trying._  
><strong>

**lol****  
><strong>

**Hope you all like it (even though you might not like what happens lol)...  
><strong>

* * *

><p>A single suitcase each in hand, Mycroft and James exited the airport and got into their respective rides.<p>

A black towncar for Mycroft and a black taxicab for James.

The vehicles drove away into London.

* * *

><p>"Status report." Mycroft requested, leaning back in the leather seat, elbow against the armrest by the window.<p>

He allowed himself to close his eyes.

"Sir," Anthea began, she sat a "Your brother has been busy with a steady stream of high-profile cases, garnering himself increasing fame—"

"I know." Mycroft interrupted, "And you know who I want to hear about."

"Yes, sir." Anthea nodded, she ruffled through her stack of black files until she found the one she needed and placed it on the top, opening it, "We looked into James Moriarty, the professor, and his story checks out. He does 'avoid' his taxes, sometimes, has the usual 'secret' foreign accounts in Swiss and Cayman banks, and during his business and stock trading days he did make some more 'questionable' deals…but other than that, he's clean. Clean—but not too clean."

"So he's _real._" Mycroft interpreted, "…and as for his past, his personal life?"

"Born in London in 1965," Anthea reported, "At home, with assistance from a midwife and two uneducated, very traditional parents—whom he cut off all contact with when he emancipated himself at sixteen."

"Any siblings?" Mycroft asked.

"No." Anthea responded, and then added, "…or, well, none that _survived._ He had two brothers, younger, that died during the home births. They were unnamed. After the second's death, he attempted to sue his parents for wrongful death. When that didn't succeed, he was, however, able to emancipate himself through the courts."

* * *

><p>"<em>That's<em> what you told them?" Moran clarified, taken aback, as he drove the taxi.

"I didn't _'tell'_ them anything." James corrected, he could see Moran's eyes in the rear view mirror, glancing back at him and ahead the road simultaneously, "That is just the data I put in the records when the British government updated their record system from paper to paperless. They use a computer program for their archive that I helped design. It was easy and convenient."

"Yes, sir, but…" Moran responded, "…don't you think that story was a little _strange?"_

"If it wasn't, then no one would believe it." James explained, "If I looked too normal, than it would seem like a lie…besides, the account of my life I gave is not all that untrue. Only minor details, like setting, and character names, are changed. The more truth that's in a lie, the more believable it is."

"Still, I think Mr. Holmes is beginning to suspect." Moran worried, "I was concerned when he unexpectedly had his employees research you. And you know, sir, that Holmes is not stupid. Neither of the brothers are. Sooner or later, no matter how many believable lies you tell, they're going to _know."_

"Yes. I know." James agreed, "That's why I need to speak with _my_ brother."

"You know the government is watching you, now, even if they don't know what they're watching for." Moran cautioned, "If you speak to or see your brother, then they'll know about it."

"I'm sure we can manage to arrange something—"

"I don't believe that is a good idea, sir—"

"Well, that's why_ I_ have the ideas and _you_ just do as you are told." James stated, "_I'm_ the one who thinks,_ you_ don't _think_. You just follow orders. It's not your _job_ to _question _them—to question_ me_. When you're smarter than me, _'Mr.'_ Moran, _then_ you can council me."

"Yes, sir." Moran accepted.

* * *

><p>"I see…" Mycroft considered.<p>

"Don't you think it's a little _strange, _through?" Anthea inquired, "Do you actually believe it?"

"If it _wasn't _strange, I _wouldn't _believe it." Mycroft answered, "You know what they say about truth and fiction."

"Yes sir."

"Now, what about the other James Moriarty?"

Anthea searched the pile of files until she located the largest one, which she dropped onto Mycroft's lap.

This caused him to open his eyes and sit up straighter.

He opened the folder, looking through pictures of Jim Moriarty (stills from security footage, photos taken from the window of the hotel across from the one he was currently staying at (as well as other locations such as the talent agency and a house in the suburbs across the street from one he visited)), and printed out reports, text messages, emails, and transcripts of conversations (telephone and in-person) recorded.

"Well, sir…" Anthea began, "I know you predicted that Moriarty would stop interacting with Molly Hooper because he had no more use for her, but he has seen her almost every day since you released him from the cell…and yet she doesn't seem to have any part in his plans."

"Hmm…" Mycroft smiled, glancing through the papers and then over at Anthea, "Do I sense you…sensing some _sentiment?"_

"There is no other explanation for his behavior, sir," Anthea affirmed, cautiously, unsure as to why her boss was smiling, "it's the only logical reason for—"

"It has nothing do with _'logic'."_ Mycroft corrected, "Although I do admit that people like Moriarty, like my brother—and like _myself,_ as well—can get quite _sentimental_ about their _hobbies,_ they'll only ever _love_ their _work._ In the grand scheme of things, Miss Hooper doesn't count. She's only a _distraction. _And so I will warn you not to get _too _attached to watching their 'romance' unfold."

"I'm not attached to watching them!" Anthea exclaimed, rolling her eyes and laughing (with an exaggeration and an unprofessionalism she would normally never display in front of her employer—_except_ when she was trying to use a strange_ lie_ to hide an even _stranger_ truth), "I'm just following orders. Doing my job."

Mycroft chuckled, shaking his head and closing the folder.

"I like it that you enjoy your work," he commented, "I wouldn't employ those who _didn't._ People have their fun where they can get it. Better to get it from your job than from your hobbies, since then you even get _paid_ for it."

"Still, sir…" Anthea continued, "just the fact of Hooper's proximity to Moriarty is…concerning. She's too close to your brother. Even if she does nothing to aid Moriarty, she still has done nothing to stop him."

"What do you think _she_ could possibly do _to_ 'stop him'?" Mycroft asked, still chuckling, "She's no genius but she not stupid either. She _knows_ _better _than to try something she'd fail at—and probably be _killed_ for."

"But she _did_ try, and he _didn't_ kill her." Anthea reminded, "…and she could have told your brother about Moriarty…or _you_, she knows who you are, _too_, sir, by the way. Moriarty's told her all about you and your 'minor' position in the British government. She knows too much."

"So what do you suggest we do about that, then?" Mycroft asked.

Anthea knew the question was just bait to lead her into a trap where he would be _right_ and she would be _wrong,_ he would be _smart_ and she would be _stupid…_

…but it was her job to take that bait.

And so she _did. _

"Take her in for questioning, detain her…" Anthea suggested, "…or at least warn your brother than he can't trust her."

Mycroft sighed.

It was like he was disappointed at his employee for making such a straight-forward (simple—not clever) solution to the 'problem' of Molly Hooper…

…but, _of course_, he _wasn't._

Because _now_ he got to explain why_ that_ idea was_ stupid _and why _his_ complicated one was much a much _better_ thing to do.

"Why confiscate from Moriarty a perfectly good distraction?" Mycroft inquired (rhetorically), "If we took away his favourite toy, then he'd be forced to return to his earlier activities. For the greater good, I think we should allow Moriarty to keep his plaything, and Sherlock to remain unaware."

"And what about Hooper?" Anthea inquired (not rhetorically), "If she is only a distraction, as you say, what if Moriarty gets bored of her…what if he kills her to 'tie up loose ends'?"

"Miss Hooper's not a child, she knows the risks of being involved with him." Mycroft shrugged, "Like I said, in the grand scheme of things, what's one life in comparison to the numerous lives her death—and her life now, might and _do _save."

"I see, sir, that makes sense." Anthea nodded, "So what now?"

"I need to meet with Jim Moriarty." Mycroft declared.

* * *

><p>For the first night in weeks, Molly had slept in her own home…<p>

…not _alone_, though.

Toby (lonely, jealous and now _triumphant_), quickly hopped up on top of her before she even pulled the covers over herself when she went to bed.

With his keen, cat sense of smell, Toby had known exactly who his Molly had been cheating on him with and reminded himself to use Jim (skin and his nice suits) as a scratching post the next time he saw him.

Not that he didn't _like _the guy—because he _did_, Jim had always been nice to him (occasionally bringing him treats when Molly wasn't around by climbing in the window, and letting him sit on his lap and petting him)— it was just that Molly was _supposed_ to be _his_, not Jim's!

And she had to have known this too…so _why _had she been spending all her time away from home leaving poor Toby _all alone?_

…Could it be that Toby had only been a _distraction_ to Molly, just until she had found herself something _better_ to do, found herself a boyfriend…?

No.

_Never! _

There was no way Toby was only a distraction to Molly, he _knew _that couldn't be true.

It just _couldn't._

Molly had come back to the flat unexpectedly that night after already stopping by to feed him, she was here with him instead of Jim.

That must have meant _something._

And the way she stroked his fur, picked him up and carried him around sometimes just to hold him close, and always let him jump up on to her no matter what she was wearing or doing and just sit there motionless so that he would be comfortable for as long as he wanted…

…all of that _had_ to mean _something._

Everything she had said, everything she had done…

…there was _no way_ it wasn't _real._

So Toby was happy and _loved_ his Molly because he knew that _she _loved _him._

And now he was watching her root through her closet and dresser, trying to find suitable clothing to wear to work that day.

All the outfits she normally wore were at the hotel and Molly didn't think that it was a good idea to go back there at the moment.

If Jim came to her, then _fine_—_but if not_, then she was going to give it the day before coming 'crawling back' to him after their _discussion_ (because she was not going to call it an 'argument').

Finally, Molly acquiesced to just wearing jeans to work (how unprofessional!), hoping that if she closed her labcoat nobody would notice anyway.

* * *

><p>When Molly arrived at St. Bart's she saw the car that used to sit across the street from her apartment building some nights, parked (illegally (because who in the world would be stupid enough to try to give a cop a parking ticket)) out in front.<p>

Lestrade was here.

_Perfect. _

_Just perfect. _

The last thing Molly wanted to deal with that morning was with the half suspicious, half sorry-for-her, detective inspector.

But it wasn't like she could just leave work (again) so she would have to walk into that hospital, go down to the morgue (where Lestrade would inevitably be), say a polite 'hello', give him whatever information he needed (along as it was about her profession, not her personal life), and go on with her day.

However, by the time Molly had made her way to her workroom, Lestrade was nowhere to be seen.

_It might not have been his car,_ she reasoned, an_d even if it was he could have had other business in the hospital. _

Either way, she was glad she didn't have to have another awkward discussion (because she wasn't the kind of confrontational person who went around arguing) with him.

_Perfect._

_Actually_, _perfect._

* * *

><p>As Jim entered the (wide, high-ceilinged, concrete-floored) room of the seemingly deserted television studio, the lights came on.<p>

There was a room within the room, smaller on a raised platform with only three walls.

Inside that of room were two armchairs and between them a wooden stand, where a tray with a pot of tea and two teacups sat. Jim instantly recognized that the scene was meant to dramatize his meeting with Sherlock the day he had been released from prison.

The actor stepped up on the stage, sitting down in the dark brown chair and waiting patiently for the director to arrive.

At first Jim was fine, absentmindedly staring around (oh look, video cameras, lights hanging from the ceiling…but where was the _action?_) but then he got bored.

"Line!" He called out.

That meant whoever was directing this thing would _have_ to come out and talk to him.

Those were the _rules._

First, Jim heard the approaching footsteps (evenly spaced until the person (male) had to jump up onto the platform without stairs) and then saw Mycroft Holmes enter the room.

(Well, who _else_ could it have been (other than one other person who wasn't talking to him anymore) that had organized all this?)

"Mr. Holmes." Jim greeted, smiling up at him, "Long time no see. I've _missed _you. Did you miss _me?_ I think you _did_—or else you wouldn't have taken over a whole television studio, just for _little old me."_

"Oh, _this? _This is just what I _do._"Mycroft said, also smiling as he strolled into the room, "It's just a bit of 'executive meddling', that's all. Nothing _too_ fancy…"

He sat down in the armchair across from Jim.

"Don't be _modest,_ Mr. Holmes." Jim replied, leaning forwards "The studio, the casting call, the set…it's all very professional. I _love_ it—except for the _script,_ of course."

"Pity." Mycroft sighed, "I really thought you'd like it. Being a 'renaissance man' and all… I thought you_ preferred _the 'modern'."

"I do." Jim affirmed, "But I like the new, the novel—not the old. And taking something new and dressing it up in the latest fashions doesn't make something new. It's still same old, same old…unoriginal."

"I disagree. It's not unoriginal, it's a classic!"

"_Exactly._ 'Hamlet' is a _classic._ So to set it in modern day would be _sacrilege!_ Using our technology for the props, our colloquialism for the dialogue…well that's just _tacky."_

"You'd be surprised. Modern-day Hamlet is_ much_ better than it sounds…pour you a cup?"

Mycroft gestured to the teapot and cups.

Jim shook his head, refusing.

Mycroft shrugged and then took one of the cups for himself.

"So you actually wrote it, then?" he inquired, "You really _are _trying to _impress_ me."

"I'm not the only one who gets bored." Mycroft explained, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other, "and it was a _long_ flight back from Switzerland."

Jim mirrored his movements.

"Long flight, huh?" he smirked, "Arms must be tired."

"Fingers_."_ Mycroft corrected, "I was typing."

"I'm _sure._ And that pretty assistant of yours traveled with you?"

"Actually _no."_

"But you kept _in-touch_ the whole time? She kept the little phone she never puts down on _vibrate,_ awaiting your every call—"

"Not everyone mixes business and pleasure. Maybe you should take a lesson, Mr. Moriarty, and learn to be more professional."

Jim shrugged.

"I can't help it if I love my work," he laughed, "I like to have fun. It's not _my_ fault if everybody in a suit's too stiff to know how…"

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

He knew that Jim Moriarty wore suits all the time and the only reason he _wasn't_ (and so was able to make that comment) is because it had been _Richard Brooke_ summoned for the 'casting call' by the Mountford talent agency (which had been purchased by the British government that morning).

"…_or not stiff enough…"_ Jim added, in a mumble.

Mycroft took a breath, rolled his eyes again.

"Are you sure you don't want something to drink?" he asked, taking a teacup for himself

"No, thanks." Jim said politely, "…So why 'Hamlet', then? I know there's a _'why',_ there's _always_ a 'why'."

"It just felt logical." Mycroft shrugged, taking , "Hamlet was a man of indecision, inaction—not to mention _theatricality_—one of _grand schemes_ that he took so very long to carry out."

"Are you trying to imply something, Mr. Holmes?" Jim asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well I just assumed you'd be _perfect _for the role," Mycroft commented, "…seeing how you're already in character."

"And so are you, Claudius." Jim retorted, "So eager to see your brother murdered….so what do you want? The _throne,_ or his _wife?" _

"You know what I want." Mycroft stated.

"Ah, well, I'm _sorry,_ then." Jim apologized, "I won't be in your show. I never liked 'Hamlet'… but I did like 'Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead' though—"

"You know very well, Mr. Moriarty, that this conversation is_ not_ about the theatre." Mycroft interrupted.

"It's _not?"_ Jim gasped, "And here I thought we were _friends _having a friendly _chat _because that's what friends _do_—unless this was, you know, a _date_ and we're just getting to know each other a little better—"

"You and I had a _deal._" Mycroft declared, "You promised me that you'd lead me to the creator of that code and you have yet to deliver."

"Oh, ye of little faith!" Jim laughed, "I've been 'delivering' _ever since_ we had our last little 'heart-to-heart'! I've left the _breadcrumbs _all over this city…now it's up to _you_ to follow them."

"I don't have time for your games." Mycroft responded, "I, unlike you, have a real job. Either you'll lead me to the code now, or we can continue this conversation _elsewhere."_

"My place or yours?" Jim asked.

"The location we met when we spoke before." Mycroft answered, "My men went easy on you the last time. I, however, will _not._ You should know that from now on I will be handling our dealings _personally_, and I _promise _you, Mr. Moriarty, that I am much more_ creative_ than my employees."

Jim snorted.

(He was glad he had decided not to drink the tea or else it would have sprayed out of his mouth all over Mycroft (which would have been hilarious—_not to mention 'symbolic' in its own right—_but not very dignified) who sat across from him, sipping his cup of tea and staring him down.

Mycroft was obviously trying (and failing) to _scare_ Jim… but if he was _so smart_ then he should have _known better_ than to try to use Jim's own 'tricks' against him.

Vague threats and promises, innuendo ( _'my men went easy', 'handling', 'personally'_ Mycroft wasn't stupid. He knew what he had said).

Those were all Jim's things.

So unless Mycroft's new motto was _'What Would Jim Do?'_, there was really no logical reason for his words and actions.

…Jim wondered just _what_ Mycroft was up to…

"Sounds fun." Jim commented.

"It can be." Mycroft conceded, "There is nothing I wouldn't do to get that code."

"…Are you _propositioning_ me?" Jim grinned, "Cause it kinda sounds like you _are_—"

"I need that code."

"No such thing as 'need'. Only _want_…So tell me, Mr. Holmes, how badly do you _want_ that code?"

Mycroft sighed, leaning forwards to set down the teacup back on the tray and then back into the armchair.

"_More than anything else in this world..."_ He said.

"Good." Jim stated, seriously, face expressionless, "Because you have to want that code—_value _that code over _everything._ Be willing to trade that code for _anything._ Nothing is for free and you know that well, Mr. Holmes. You know that everything, _everything_ is business and that in order to_ get_ you must _give."_

"Your _demands?" _

"I have no demands. You've already given me _everything I need_… All I ask now is that you leave me alone. You see, it's just a simple game of 'follow the leader'. _I_ leave my trail of clues and _you_ follow them. If you stop me, then the trail stops too and you'll never be able to find the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. If you want that code, you have to let me finish my trail—and my _plans_. And you _know_ what my plans are, don't you?"

"Plant the keycode on my brother without his knowledge and then watch as the 'representatives' of various international gangs circle him like hawks?"

"Close enough."

"Well if you were actually going to sell the code you would have already."

"You've got that right, at least."

"What is it, then? What did I miss?"

Jim chuckled, shaking his head.

"Nobody ever listens, they _just. don't. listen._ The underestimate the _importance _of words. The _meaning,_ the_ value…" _

"You mean your 'stories'? Your 'Richard Brook' character and his lines in the papers?"

"Like I said, 'close enough'—But that's not the _point._ Point is you know what you're _giving up_, getting that code, _right?_ You know _who _you're giving up?"

"Yes."

"Well then you better say it, then, _say his name_. You do owe him _that _much, at least. Because it's _him_ that I'm crumbling up into little pieces and leaving behind as my trail for you. It's _him_ that will _burn _alive. And when you reach the end of that trail, Mr. Holmes, there's not going to be anything left of _him._ He'll be all gone. So you'd better be alright with that now, since _now _you can _stop_ me. _Now _you can _save _him—save him and _give up_ the code, that is. Your choice. Because there is always a choice."

"Yes, there _is_ always a choice. And _you_ can choose to stop this yourself. _You_ can choose to give me the code—"

"But I _won't._ And you know that. So what do _you_ choose, Mycroft Holmes? Your brother, _your own flesh and blood_…or a computer keycode?"

"In the wrong hands that code could do more damage in one day than decades of war. But in the _right _hands, the _British government's_ hands…that code will save lives_, save the world." _

"And it'll also kill Sherlock Holmes. So you'd trade your brother for the world?"

"_Yes._ It's the _logical _choice, to sacrifice one life for the lives of many."

"But this _isn't_ 'logic'. This is _family._ This is _love—"_

"Love is what one _gives up_ to _get _logic. It's a trade. It's _business." _

Mycroft straightened himself, taking a breath and then picking up his teacup again.

Jim smiled, finally taking the cup meant for him but waiting for Mycroft to drink before he too did.

"…_Or maybe_ you're secret bleeding-heart who—in your _infinite love and wisdom_—_can't help_ but to save it from itself _and_ its sins by sacrificing your _only son_—I mean _brother_. Your only brother."

"Playing god's a difficult job. One has to make difficult decisions."

"You made the wrong one. You chose wrong."

"You'd have done differently?"

"Yes."

"You have a brother…?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

Jim smirked.

"No…but I'd _never _give up Sherlock for _anything,_ Mr. Holmes, not even the whole world—not even _myself."_

Mycroft's eyebrows remained risen as he brought the cup to his now smiling lips, taking a slow slip.

"Really, now?" he asked, "Not the_ world_, not _yourself?_...Not _anything?"_

"_Nothing."_ Jim confirmed.

But when he drank from his own teacup of tea…

…he tasted coffee.

* * *

><p>When Moriarty had left, Mycroft heard the high-heeled footsteps of his employee approaching.<p>

She hesitated before she stepped up onto the stage and came into the room within the room through its 'door'.

Anthea was standing behind Mycroft from where he sat in the armchair, still enjoying his coffee in a teacup, and he did not turn to face her.

"Yes?" he asked.

He had to p_rompt_ her because he could hear her taking the deep breaths a soldier took before disobeying a direct order, the fear of a firing squad in forefront of his mind.

"...your brother..." she said, finally, "...your own brother?"

"Yes."

"But how can you-"

"How can I not? How could anything else be justified?"

"I know, sir, but-"

Anthea was interrupted by Mycroft setting down the teacup on the tray sharply and standing up.

Now, he turned around, looking her directly in the eye.

"It is not your place to advise me strategically _or_ morally." he told her, "It may be your job to spy on my brother and those he associates with. But you merely _watch_ them-you don't _become_ them. It's _unproffessional._ I am _not_ my brother, and you...you are _not_ my John Watson."

"Yes, sir." Anthea nodded, once and then looked down at her smartphone.

* * *

><p>When Molly returned to room 221 in the hotel that night at the usual time, instead of Jim sulking around inside (going stir crazy) she found the maid vacuuming.<p>

The hotel room was completely empty and Jim was gone.

…as was all of _both _of their stuff.

_(What the hell?) _

"Um…excuse me, ma'am?" Molly attempted as she cautiously approached the woman (bent, with her back turned _('What Would Jim Do?'_)), the vacuum's roar covering her quiet voice.

She tapped the maid on the shoulder (yes, _the shoulder_) and she turned around to face her, turning off the vacuum.

"How can I help you?" the woman addressed, in a Russian accent.

"I'm sorry but can you tell me what happened to um…the person who was staying here?" Molly asked, "…and all the belongings that were here, as well?"

"The man checked out this afternoon." The maid answered, "He took all of his things with him."

"…oh…" Molly replied, surprised and confused.

And as she rode the elevator back downstairs she tried to figure out why Jim would have just 'up and left'.

She hadn't thought their _discussion_ (which she hadn't even considered an argument up until now) had been _that bad_…they'd definitely had had _worse_ disagreements.

So _why_ would Jim just _leave _(her)?

What if he had been arrested again…or taken by Sherlock's brother?

If that was the case, then it had been whatever authorities responsible who had confiscated all of Jim's (and her) stuff…

…which meant they knew _exactly_ who Molly Hooper was and whom she had been 'spending time' with.

They'd be coming for her next, no doubt!

What was she going to_ do?_

Molly stepped off the elevator and into the slightly crowded, more than slightly fancy lobby.

It was around seven thirty in the evening and so the hotel restaurant was getting full, as was the hotel bar.

But as Molly made her way over to the revolving exit door, she saw Lestrade walk in.

_What?_

What was_ he_ doing here?

There was no logical reason for him to come to this hotel…

…_unless_ he had followed Molly hoping to 'catch her in the act'.

(In fact, Molly figured, Lestrade had probably been following her all day, maybe even since the day that they had had that _argument _at the courthouse.)

And she was out in the open of the wide lobby now, without even a disguise. She knew there was nowhere to hide and it wasn't like she could _run_—that would only draw_ more_ unwanted (_for once_, unwanted) attention to her.

Besides, Lestrade had already seen her.

He was walking (—no _stomping_) in her direction, pushing past any hotel guest or staff that happened to be in his way.

"Hello, Detective Inspector…" Molly greeted him.

She forced a smile.

Lestrade did _not._

"Hello Molly." He said, _"What are you doing here?"_

"…oh, I just came to get a drink at the bar after work…" Molly laughed.

"Really?" Lestrade replied, "This is miles from the hospital…"

"I know." Molly agreed, still smiling, "I didn't want to run into anyone from work…"

"Who _did _you want to 'run into', then?" Lestrade questioned.

"No one." Molly answered, "I wanted to be alone."

"At the _same_ bar, of the _same _hotel, of the _same_ sixteen year old victim you said that Moriarty killed?" Lestrade clarified, "—which you had no evidence for, by the way, but still 'just happened' to know."

"_I told you_ he was texting me." Molly explained, "_That's_ how I knew. But he stopped now. Stopped ages ago."

"And yet you still came to this hotel?" Lestrade accused, _"Why?"_

"I _wanted_ to be _alone."_ Molly repeated.

"You know that this is _also_ the hotel they put the jurymen up in, too, _right?"_ Lestrade informed, "The jury that found Moriarty not guilty, despite all the evidence against him and him not even having any kind of defense?"

"I didn't even know about that." Molly responded, "I just came here to get a drink, be alone…and not be _bothered!"_

Her last words had come out almost as a shout, which had definitely shocked Lestrade, whose head jerked back in surprise.

And so, even though he was_ really_ annoying her right now, Molly still felt bad for yelling at Lestrade.

She didn't want him (or anyone, really) as an enemy.

(There already was _so much_ fighting, _so much_ of it for no reason at all.)

Lestrade may have been on 'Team Sherlock' (or, at least, _against _Jim) but Molly wasn't 'picking sides' (…even if that meant (which it _did_, Molly realized) that Jim was on a side all by himself).

"…I'm sorry." Molly retracted, "I didn't mean—I mean I didn't want. I just—_I don't want to fight._ You—I don't want to fight _you_. We're _friends_—at least I _think_ we're friends, _you said_ we were 'friends'…and I don't want to fight with a friend…I think we should talk."

"_Talk?"_ Lestrade repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, _talk._" Molly affirmed, "We're friends, and that's what friends do. They talk. I don't want…" she took a breath, "…you to think the wrong thing about me. I—I know how this looks and I see where you're coming from with, um…all of _this._ But if you give me a chance to explain I think can—I mean I know I can get you to understand."

"…Alright, then, Molly I'll hear you out..." Lestrade accepted, cautiously, "Let's 'talk'."

"Good!" Molly exclaimed, "Great! So…um…shall we?"

She gestured towards the bar. Lestrade raised his eyebrow again but followed her over to it.

There, they sat down on stools next to each other and ordered their drinks from the bartender who gave them an odd glance as he poured (he had seen Jim take some new girl up to his hotel room yesterday and now Molly was here at the bar with some new guy tonight—the bartender 'deduced' that they were both either _cheaters_…or some kind of swingers).

And it was a mixed-drink of truth and lies Molly was able to serve and Lestrade was able to swallow.

Because people never really _know_ anything, they only _think_ (think they know).

And people only ever _believe_ what they _want _to.

_(…especially when drunk.) _

But when had Molly become a_ liar_, she wondered, when had she become a _good _liar?

And _when_ had lying become the _right thing_ to do?

Lestrade was laughing now.

He had never found her jokes funny before, nobody ever had (well _almost _nobody) but Lestrade was laughing now, glass in hand and smiling at her.

He had actually enjoyed (and _believed_) her story about how, after meeting (and _admittedly_ becoming_ obsessed_ with) Sherlock Holmes, _she too _had wanted to be a 'detective' and so the reason she put up with Moriarty's 'occasional' contact (texting only!) was because she wanted to 'solve the case'.

It was_ that_ interest (—that interest being the _only _interest, there was no romantic interest whatsoever) was what had brought Molly to the courthouse that day to see the trial and brought her to the holding cells to see Moriarty.

(And, _of course_, there was a bit of a personal _grudge_ there against Moriarty since he had used her _so cruelly_ and _played with her heart_ to get to Sherlock. It was _understandable_ she'd want very badly to see him captured and imprisoned.)

It all made perfect sense.

_It all added up. _

"I'm sorry, Molly, I'm really, really sorry…" Lestrade apologized, patting Molly on the arm, "I never should have suspected—I don't know what I was thinking!"

"It's fine." Molly forgave, "Really, it's okay. You were just doing your job…"

She glance at the hand touching her out of the corner of her, still looking at Lestrade who had spun completely in his seat to face her.

"_No."_ he stated, and suddenly his hands were around hers on her knees (!) as he stared at her seriously, "I was _wrong…_but I want you to know that I never—_never _investigated you officially. At _all_. I never wrote up any reports or made any records of any of our conversations or times that I've well, _watched _you. It was all off the books. I_ never_ wanted to get you in trouble…I just thought that if you were already _in '_trouble', that you might need my _help."_

"…I see…" Molly replied, politely picking up her drink as an excuse to free her hand from his grasp.

(The glass, of course, was already empty and she bit down on the ice that fell into her mouth.)

This, however, only legitimately rescued _one_ of her hands and so the other one was left in a 'friendly' hold.

Looking him in the eyes, she could tell that what he said was _true_—but also that he was a little bit _drunk._

"And I also want you to know," Lestrade continued, "that all those times I've watched your flat, to protect you from _him_, none of that was official either. My superiors didn't think it was _worth it _putting a police detail around your place. But _I _did. They didn't think he'd come back, didn't think there'd be any logical reason for him to...but they didn't see what _I_ saw—what I _see._ They didn't see _you."_

"…um, thank you…" Molly thanked, trying her best to sound sincere instead of uncomfortable, then adding, "…Greg…" because after saying something _so _sweet (and meaning it) he did deserve a first-name-basis (even if that was _all_ he was going to get).

"And _you_," Lestrade declared, "…_you_ are something worth coming back to and I just wanted to protect you from him because you are something worth protecting and—"

"It's getting late." Molly interrupted, abruptly standing up, "I should go."

"I'll give you a ride." Lestrade offered, also standing.

His hands were still 'attached' to hers, she looked down at them and his gazed followed hers.

Lightly enough that it _could_ have been accidental, one of her fingers grazed the medal band that he was wearing around his finger once again.

She looked back up at his face.

Blushing and laughing embarrassedly, Lestrade turned away, finally releasing her hand.

"No thanks," she refused, with a polite smile, "I can walk."

* * *

><p>First thing in the door to her place, Kitty had kissed him, before he had even put his bags down.<p>

It should have been _perfect._

(Straight guys were _supposed_ to appreciate a woman that forward (that _easy_) weren't they? And Richard Brooke was straight.)

"Well it's not the Ritz, but I'm sure it'll do." Kitty had told him, later, "Make yourself at home."

"I like it already," Jim had smiled, then, flopping down on her couch, "It's..._homey." _

It was like lines read right out of a movie script.

(…so formulaic, so _boring_…)

It should have been _perfect._

(Free room and board? A pretty girl? (And she didn't have a cat to get fur all over _everything.)_ How could he complain?)

And now, Jim Moriarty (—well, _Richard Brooke_, actually) was still lying on Kitty Riley's sofa, taking swigs from a beer bottle (because that's what straight guys _DO!_), gazing around her home.

Pictures of far away places decorated the walls—she wanted to travel, but couldn't afford to.

The motto _'make believe'_ raised but painted the same color as the wall, almost invisible—_Liar._ The teller of known secrets.

It should have been _perfect._

"And nobody even cares about the so-called 'important' stuff," Kitty babbled on, calling down to him from upstairs in the kitchen, "like that meeting in Switzerland about the economic crisis that just happened…_nobody cares!_ Stories like that don't sell any papers! _Gossip_ does."

Jim could hear the clattering of pots and pans as she cooked (she could actuallycook!_ Real food._ Not just cereal and snacks…) and feel the steam already warming the room.

"…and so that's why we sell gossip, because _gossip sells."_ Kitty continued, "…and that's, why they call it 'The Sun', too, because gossip is at the _center of this universe_ it's what everyone's lives _revolve_ around."

(_What?_ So everyone else's lives _didn't_ revolve around Sherlock Holmes like Jim's (and Molly's) did? _Impossible!_)

"Well that and money." Kitty added, "That's what people's lives revolve around. Gossip and money. So I'm not ashamed to say I'll do anything, _anything_ to make money. There's _nothing_ I wouldn't do to get my story. Stand outside someone's house in the rain, take pictures through their window, follow them wherever they go... I've done it all. And I'll do it all again. They say it's rude, they say it's immoral? I don't care. All I care about is gossip and money. Same as everyone else—I just admit it. Everyone else is just _lying,_ to each other and to _themselves._ They're all just _pretending_…"

And it should have been _perfect. _

It really _should_ have been perfect.

_She_ should have been perfect.

Kitty was about as _morally bankrupt _a person could be (and proud about it too) without actually breaking the law.

She was the kind of person Jim liked to work with (_and_ the kind of female he tolerated sleeping with—or at least_ thought_ he could) and maybe even be 'friends' with (if people like him _had_ friends).

_In fact_, she was everything Jim 'respected' in a _normal _(as in the people _not_ like him) person and _she really, really should have been perfect. _

_Should have…_

…But she _wasn't_ and _it _wasn't.

All Kitty Riley was, was _disgusting._

And all Jim was, was _bored._

* * *

><p><strong>...so...<strong>

**...well...****  
><strong>

**_ That_ awkward fact of the show is being 'tackled' (and cast back out to sea so our current ship can continue to sail (somewhat) unhindered).****  
><strong>

**lol  
><strong>

**And 'Make Beleive' is actually on Kitty Riley's wall, too. Idk if anyone saw that lol took me a second watch (thanks internet!).**

**Also in the third episode of the second season...a whole lot of mirrors! **

**(Just thought I'd point that out too lol)  
><strong>

**And again with that reviews being my lifeblood thing, now more than ever I need a little bit of happy when I come home from school lol...****  
><strong>


	35. Revenge

**Again with the wait...I'm sorry. **

**And are the alerts working?  
><strong>

**I'd actually be _happy_ if they were broken because then I wouldn't feel as if some of my regular reviewers were playing some passive agressive game with me to punish me for not updating fast enough.  
><strong>

**lol.  
><strong>

**But, of course, just because that's the kind of crazy shit I'd do...doesn't mean that anyone else would think and/or act like that.  
><strong>

**lol again.  
><strong>

**So, well, about this chapter...  
><strong>

**...finally we have the return and the revenge (?) of The Rachen Men!  
><strong>

**And it's not even (that much of a) filler!  
><strong>

**lolololol  
><strong>

**Hope you like it!**

* * *

><p><em>Jim?<em>

_Where are you?_

…

…

…

_Please respond!_

…

…

_Where are you?_

…

_If you dont want to be with me then thats fine but I need my stuff back._

…

…

_I really need my clothes back. Im not rich like you I cant just go out and buy more. _

…

_And what are you keeping them for anyway? _

_You're not going to WEAR them, are you? _

…

…

…

…_are you? _

…

…

_Please Jim just answer!_

…

_Please! _

…

…

_..._

_Jim…Im pregnant._

* * *

><p>Okay.<p>

Well _maybe _that last text wasn't the smartest idea.

Jim and Molly _both _knew that if Molly had actually been pregnant then the _last _thing she would do would be tell_ Jim_ about it.

_No,_ if Molly had actually been pregnant she would have also been miles and miles away from anywhere Jim would be able to find her.

But she was _desperate!_

(—no, no! Not _that_ kind of 'desperate' (well kind of, actually, but that's not the point) just desperate to get Jim's attention…_so that she could get her clothing back_, of course. That was the _only _reason. _Definitely.)_

Molly couldn't believe Jim would just _disappear_ like this, without any explanation, and, well, _leave her alive. _

She remembered the last time he had done this (to_ her_ (to _her!_ how could Jim _do this_ to her?..._oh yeah,_ he's _Jim_…))…two years ago when thirteen people had been blown up in an apartment building and 'Jim from IT' had ceased to exist.

Sherlock had told Molly that Moriarty didn't _like _loose ends, that he liked to tie them up in a bow and then blow them up and that's why that poor old woman 'had' to die.

So why was she even still _alive….?_

There were two logical reasons:

_A,_ Jim wasn't done with her yet.

Or _B,_ Molly was so insignificant, so meaningless that she didn't even warrant a quick and efficient gunshot execution-style—let alone, an entire _explosion. _

(…And guess which one of those was more likely.)

But what was she going to do?

_Cry about it? _

No!

Molly Hooper still had a _life_ without Jim Moriarty.

...well a cat and a job, at least, anyway.

And_ that_ was where she was going to go, to do her job and _not_ cry and _not_ miss Jim and just get on with her life and_ live_ because that is what people _do._

She was going to_ live_ and she was going to be_ happy. _

_Stay happy. Stay happy…_

* * *

><p>Once the 'discreet' black bus was at a 'safe' distance away from the prison, Conan tossed the handcuff keys back as he drove through the busy streets of London.<p>

Doyle caught them, unlocked his restraints and then passed the keys to the next (now former) prisoner (who passed it on to the next when he was done, and so on).

They sat in the windowless portion of the vehicle, as Conan, who glanced back at them (or out either of the two windows to make sure nobody could see), continued to drive.

"So we're out of jail…" Arthur stated (the obvious), "But what do we do now?"

"Get revenge." Ricoletti declared.

"Get my money." Doyle declared.

Both men had spoken at the same time.

They stared across at each other, questioningly, realizing that this 'differing motivation thing' _may _be a problem.

"Look," Conan began, turning his head around to face them, "I was able to 'transfer' you all—but just for today. I have to bring you all back to prison by the end of the night or else they'll figure it out, I'll lose my job and they'll come looking for us!"

"Well our plans don't have to take very long," Doyle accepted, "The quicker the better. All I need to do is replace the money I would have gotten had I been able to _properly_ rob the Bank of England. Then I can return with it to my boss—but I am _not_ going back to jail."

"Neither am I." Ricoletti agreed, "I need to make Moriarty _suffer_ for separating me and my wife."

The small bus made a sharp turn that Conan had misjudged since he hadn't been paying attention to the road, causing Arthur, Ricoletti and Doyle to bounce in their seats without seatbelts and the handcuffs clang and slide across the floor.

"Like I said," Arthur added, _"_What do we do?"

"We make Moriarty suffer like I've suffered," Ricoletti decided, "by threatening his woman…"

"…so that we can get him to give us the money." Doyle added.

"Okay." Arthur shrugged, "Sounds good to me."

"Me too." Conan said, now facing forwards.

Ricoletti breathed a grudging agreement to the plan, nodding to Doyle but also giving him a look.

"I think Moriarty's girlfriend works at St. Bartholomew's hospital...in the morgue…" Doyle figured, "That's why he had us all meet there that one day, for no good reason, when he was so _agitated. _He ran off, which was strange—even for him—and then I saw him later come back with some flowers."

"That makes sense." Ricoletti evaluated, "That explains how he would get away with so many crimes. If he commits a murder, then she could just hide the evidence for him."

"Alright, then." Conan exclaimed, "We're off to Bart's!"

He slammed his foot down on the acceleration and the bus sped away towards its destination, jostling and jolting its passengers (except for Conan who had a seatbelt and a comfy front seat).

* * *

><p>Not bothering to park in an actual parking space, the bus screeched to a stop in front of St. Bartholomew's.<p>

It was very…_strange,_ a prison guard and three men in prison uniforms jumping out of a prison bus and rushing (well_ three_ of them rushing, the fourth _hobbling_) into the hospital.

_Suspicious. _

…and _so,_ as he strolled out the doors (these four men pushing past him on their way inside) to embark upon his lunch break, Mike Stanford called the police.

* * *

><p>And Molly was <em>not <em>taking out her emotions on the corpse she worked on.

She just really, really,_ really_ loved her job.

_That_ was why she _enjoyed _cutting the human flesh with such _force._

It was _fun._

(And it wasn't even _rude_ because the guy was already dead. It's not like she was _torturing_ him or anything. _Who _would 'enjoy' _that_, anyway,_ who_ would think _that_ was 'fun'..._who_…? _No!_ Don't think about him!)

The room was gray and metal and _cold_ (—and _no_ that did _not_ 'symbolize' anything, it was_ always_ like this (her life was _always_ like this (this was _normal_))) and Molly felt _right at home_ in her white labcoat standing over a dead body.

Just then, she heard the door to her workroom open.

…_.Jim?_

Molly looked up, setting down her tools on the table.

_No. _

Four men she didn't recognize filed into the room.

One of them walked with a limp (dragging one of his foot, it was injured a little more than a month ago judging by the cast on it).

Another one wore some kind of guard's uniform _(Conan. Pentonville.) _The other three wore…_prisoner's uniforms?_

_What the hell?_

Molly froze, gaping at them.

Were these people Jim had sent over to 'tie up loose ends'?

(Well if they _were_ she guessed she should feel _flattered_ that she was _important _enough to warrant the effort (and the number)…and insulted that, after all they'd been through, Jim hadn't come to do it _personally.) _

"Miss…" the man in front started, the three others standing behind him.

He wasn't the one wearing the guard uniform and yet he spoke for the group (which was strange…)—

—or _did_ he?

A second man (the one with the limp), who also wore a prison uniform, moved to stand beside (no slightly in front of) the first.

"…_Hooper,_ is it?" he completed.

His accent stressed the 'e' as if it were an 'a' and dropped the 'h' completely (but not in the British way)….and it was a bit _exaggerated_.

Molly could only tell because she had heard Jim fake accents enough to know when something was _forced._

The man was trying to _disguise_ himself for some reason (_good _reason because although Molly couldn't place the face she felt like she kind of recognized it).

"…Yes…?" Molly responded, cautiously.

She looked at each man in turn, as her hand discreetly picked her scalpel back up, holding at the ready behind the body.

"My name is Antonio Ricoletti," he continued, "…you may have heard of me. These are my associates, Arthur, Conan and Doyle." He gestured to the three other men (brown hair, young and skinny. Blond hair, balding and fat. Black hair, muscular) respectively.

Doyle, the third man mentioned and the first to have spoken, spoke again.

"We're going to need you to call your boyfriend for us."

"I don't have a—"

"No stalling, miss, no _games."_ Doyle insisted, stepping towards her and drawing his guns, "Just call him. Call Jim Moriarty. _Now." _

"I—he won't—I mean—" Molly fumbled for words as her free hand fumbled for her phone in her pocket.

"And put down that weapon, too, miss, if you please." Ricoletti added, "It won't do you any good anyway and you'll have an easier time reaching your phone."

Molly sighed, and metal clinked against metal as now both her hands dug through her pockets until she found her cellphone.

"He won't answer." She stated, "I can call, I can text…but he won't answer. You're wasting your time."

"Just call." Doyle told her.

And so she did.

What these men wanted, she didn't know…but she _did_ know that they weren't going to_ get_ it (at least not from _her_).

And she did again.

And again.

And again.

Each time, the phone rang until it went to voicemail.

('Hi, there! What's up? Uh-huh…uh-huh…_interesting_…hey, hey wait. I'm gonna stop you there… because I'm not actually _here _right now. This is my voicemail. Ha, ha. Gotcha, didn't I? Well, feel free to leave a message, then, or call back later, if you want…but _don't_ be expecting a call back or anything because if I didn't answer the phone to you then that probably mean you're just not _important _to me. And If you were s_mart_ you'd just_ give up _and _get a life_—but you're _not_, of course, and_ that's_ why you've been listening this long and so _that's _why I have to _tell you._ So here's just a friendly word of advice for you: just kill yourself already. Buh-bye now.')

Finally, Doyle gave up telling Molly to call back.

"I told you…" she mumbled, "…I told you he wouldn't pick up…"

"Hey, let me try!" Arthur spoke up suddenly, pushing past Doyle and Ricoletti and reaching across the table (and corpse—_ew, gross_ (but, having been in prison for a month now, he'd seen worse)) to pull the phone from Molly's hand.

Using Molly's phone, Arthur sent a text message to Jim.

_Dear Mr. M, _

_Its us again. _

…_and well we kinda captured ur girlfriend so if u wanna answer the phone we wud really appreciate it. _

_Thanks, _

_The Rachen Men _

And instantly, the phone rang.

"Hello?" Arthur answered, "Hi! It's Arthur…. I'm good, how are you?

"Put it on speaker." Doyle commanded.

He, Ricoletti and Conan circled around Arthur, who clicked the button. Molly stayed safely behind her morgue table, watching them.

Now she could hear Jim's voice, trying to converse with these four strange men who all wanted to speak at the same time.

Obviously Jim wasn't too busy to talk to _them_, just to _her._

"You're on speaker." Arthur said, holding the phone on the palm of his hand for everyone in the room to easily hear.

"_I am?"_ Jim's voice replied, _"Hello everyone!...who's there, anyway?"_

"Um…me, Conan, Doyle and um…Mr. Rico." Arthur counted, pointing at the person as he said the name (even though Jim couldn't see them), "I call him that cause I can't pronounce his last name. He's not from here…he's French…I think…"

Ricoletti groaned, rolling his eyes.

"You're girlfriend's here, too, by the way." Arthur added.

"_Oh, that's nice…" _Jim's voice said.

"Yes she is." Doyle confirmed, "And we're going to kill her if you don't pay me the money I lost in that robbery _you _botched..._with interest." _

"'_With interest'?"_ Jim's voice repeated, _"Interesting…"_

"Yes. Very." Doyle agreed, "So how will you be paying me? Cash, check, wire transfer…?"

"_How about an 'I owe you'?"_ Jim's voice suggested.

"How about we kill your girlfriend?" Doyle countered.

"_How about it?"_ Jim's voice laughed, "_Kill her. I don't care. She's not my girlfriend anyway. You've got the wrong girl." _

"You're bluffing." Doyle called, "We're _not."_

He snatched the phone from Arthur's hand, pointing it_ and_ his gun towards Molly, (who jumped back a little, _very thankful_ that the table was still between them).

"Molly, say 'hello' to Jimmy for me." He instructed.

"…uh…_hi_…Jim…" Molly spoke, shakily, leaning towards the phone to speak into it (even thought it was on speaker), "…he has a _gun_…"

Jim's voice just cackled for what felt like minutes. He finally sighed, trying to catch his breath, and said;

"_Looks like you boys were a little late to the party. I know the feeling. Go away to jail for a few weeks, then get back on the outside and they change everything! So annoying…but that's life, isn't it? And life goes on. I've got a new girl now so do with you want with this one. I'm done with her…" _

"How do we know you're not lying?" Ricoletti demanded.

"If she was _really_ my girlfriend…" Jim's voice answered, "…then why would I gamble with her life like this? Not everyone can be as…_monogamous_ as you, _Mr. Rico._ The same woman every night? I'd get_ bored. _I _got_ bored. So I moved on...but 'to each his own', I suppose. How's your _'own'_ doing, by the way?

Ricoletti growled, grabbing the phone out of Doyle's grasp and speaking into (even though it was on speaker).

"You don't dare mention her after what you've done!" he threatened, "You'll soon learn what it's like to lose someone you love…"

"_Well, 'it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all'…" _Jim's voice conceded, _"…but you're going to have to go and find the girl I 'love' then, because you've got the wrong one now and I really want to learn that lesson." _

"Care to give me her name, then?" Ricoletti asked, "If you're so _eager?"_

"_Nope." _Jim's voice declined, _"I never make it that easy. But you're smart, I'm sure you'll figure it out…"_

"I _will."_ Ricoletti affirmed.

He then hung up the phone (dramatically) wishing it was a landline so he could have slammed it down…

…slamming down (hard) onto the metal table was _good enough_, though and when Molly quickly picked it up she inspected it for breakage.

"So…" Arthur spoke up, "What do we do now?"

"We need to locate Moriarty's real girlfriend and make them both suffer." Ricoletti stated plainly.

"So that we can get the money." Doyle added, "…and we've gotta kill this one too."

"But she's not his girlfriend anymore." Conan reminded.

"She's a loose end." Doyle explained, "She's seen all our faces. If we let her live, she'll turn us in to the police."

"No I won't!" Molly exclaimed, "I never turned Jim in—even _after_ he broke up with me!"

Doyle turned to her, gun aimed at her forehead and rolled his eyes.

"Get on your knees." He said, "You can close your eyes, if you want. It won't hurt. You won't feel it. And it's not as scary when you don't see it coming."

Molly lifted her scalpel, knowing it was _powerless_ but also knowing that she _had _to do _something._

"If you're going to kill me…" she said, voice carefully steady, "…you'll look me in the eyes…it's the least you can do."

"Alright." Doyle nodded, expressionless and motionless, gun still pointing towards her.

"You're not really going to do this, are you?" Conan inquired, tapping him on the shoulder "Come on, man…she's a _girl._ We don't need to be killing _women_, for god's sake!"

"What's the difference?" Doyle retorted, glancing back at him briefly, before turning back to Molly and cocking his gun.

"How convenient." Ricoletti commented, "She is already in a morgue. She dies as she lived."

Molly stood (still but shaking).

Was this _really_ how it was all going to _end? _

All the _nothing_ in her life and then _everything_ with Jim…

…all just to end like_ this? _

(_Anti-climatic._ She understood Jim's desire for _good _endings to stories, now. Of course, to Jim, 'good' didn't mean 'happy' (but Molly had always known that _her _story's ending would never be _happy_).)

And the _worst _part was that Jim _wouldn't even bother _to _save_ her or kill her _himself._ It didn't matter to him whether she lived or died.

_He just didn't care._

So maybe she _would_ close her eyes…

Molly, dropped the tool clutched in her sweaty hand and shut her eyelids slowly.

In the black, she waited for the sound of gunshot and then the _nothing. _

…instead she heard the hospital's PA system come on. A woman's voice announced:

'_Attention hospital guests and staff. Would the owner of a black bus labeled 'Pentonville' please report to the front entrance. You must to move your vehicle now or it will be towed. Again, would the owner of a black bus labeled 'Pentonville' please report to the front entrance. You must to move your vehicle now or it will be towed. Thank you and have a nice day.' _

"Shit!" Conan cursed, "That's me! We've gotta go! I'm not gonna pay the fee to get that out of towing!"

Doyle glared at him, but Conan was already running out of the workroom, shouting back for everyone to 'hurry up'.

"Let's just go." Ricoletti decided, turning to leave, "It's more important that we kill the real girlfriend anyway…"

"…fine…" Doyle sighed, lowering his weapon. One last time he turned to Molly, warning, "Keep your mouth shut, Miss Hooper. You have no one to save you."

He and Ricoletti (still limping) exited the room, leaving Arthur who instead of going towards the door approached Molly again.

"Well, since you're not Mr. Moriarty's girlfriend, anymore…" he tried, smiling, "…would you like to be _my_ girlfriend?"

"…um…no thanks…" Molly shook her head, also smiling (just to be _polite_(—it was something she just couldn't help. Like a compulsion or something)), still incredibly shaken up from the gun that had been in her face only moments before.

"Well it was worth a shot …" Arthur shrugged.

He turned around and trudged out of the morgue, running after the others as soon as he reached the hallway.

Molly just stood there (still frozen, still gaping).

She couldn't believe that that Arthur bloke had_ actually_ asked her out.

His associates had almost _killed_ her and he'd been fine with that.

Why would she _ever_ date someone who'd _hurt her_ or allow her to be hurt?

She wasn't_ stupid_ and willingly becoming involved with someone like _that _(obviously, a convicted criminal from his outfit) would be _beyond _stupid.

And Molly Hooper would _never, ever _be that_—_

—_oh. _

…Right…

* * *

><p>"Goddamn it!" Conan roared.<p>

He, Arthur, Doyle and Ricoletti had gotten outside of St. Bartholomew's to see the prison bus being towed away down the street, hooked up to a tow-truck.

"It's okay…" Arthur attempted to comfort him.

"No it's not! It's not okay!" Conan continued to yelled, he then spun jabbing a finger towards Ricoletti, "This is all _your_ fault! _You_ took long with that cast on your foot! _You_ held us up! _You're_ the weak link in this group!"

"_I'm _the 'weak link'?" Ricoletti scoffed, "If it were not for _me '_The Rachen Men' would not exist! _I _organized us!"

"Stop fighting!" Arthur cried, "Why are you two fighting? It's just a car!"

"He's _right."_ Doyle agreed (and did _not_ say 'for once'), "This is _stupid._ We can't get divided now. We've got a job to do."

He _definitely _regretted working with these people. Just _what_ had he gotten himself into (_again_).

"Well, whatever, then, I'm not mad." Conan said, calming down, "But I'm _not _paying to get the bus outta impound."

"We'll just walk." Doyle stated.

"Alright." Conan and Arthur agreed.

"Alright with you?" Doyle asked, addressing Ricoletti.

"Yes." Ricoletti nodded.

"_Good."_ Doyle smiled.

And Ricoletti was sure it was _not_ because of the re-established group 'harmony' but because his only rival for alpha would now have to walk wherever they went with an injured foot.

They started down the sidewalk away from the hospital, Ricoletti 'grinning and bearing' it.

"We need to figure out who Moriarty's girlfriend and how to find her." he began, "That way we can have our revenge."

"Okay." Conan and Arthur accepted.

"I'm not worried about 'revenge'…" Doyle countered, "…as long as I get my money. You can kill whoever his girlfriend is once I've got what I need."

"As you wish." Ricoletti responded, "…but don't make any promises as to her well-being because I don't intend to keep them."

Doyle stopped.

He turned back to face the men behind who also stopped.

Again, they stood in a circle to talk (which was inconvenient for other pedestrians trying to walk).

"_Look."_ He said flatly, "All I need is the money so I can get back in with my boss. As long as I get that we're good—even _Moriart_y and I are good—_as long as I get that._ What happens to him_ and_ his girlfriend _I don't care._ What happens to _you three_ after that I don't care…but I _better_ get that money."

"You don't _care _about us?" Arthur commented, "Well that's a little _rude…" _

"That's business." Doyle shrugged.

"Hey, now, I took a big risk letting you all out of jail," Conan reminded, "_I thought_ we were in this _together."_

"We _are." _Doyle affirmed, "Until I get my money. Then I'm out. I'm not _petty_ enough to bother getting 'revenge'. That's just _stupid._ I have _better _things to do than waste time on Jim Moriarty—who is the reason I'm in this _regrettable_ situation in the first place. I'm not making the _mistake _of getting involved with him any more than necessary _ever again."_

"_No."_ Ricoletti denied (triumphantly), "You know the rules of The Rachen Men. You took your vows when you joined our 'prison gang'. It's more than just business. Either you're_ in_ or you're _out."_

"Then I'm out." Doyle decided (which was fine with Ricoletti since that crowned him king of The Rachen Men).

_With that,_ he turned and walked away, crossing the street in order to put some distance between him and his former associates.

(And then there were three.)

"So what do we do now?" Arthur asked, once Doyle was gone.

"We get ourselves a girlfriend." Ricoletti grinned.

* * *

><p>It was<em> unclean<em> to wipe one's eyes with the sleeve of a labcoat that had been content with a deceased homosapien.

Besides, Molly was_ not_ going to cry.

So there was _no reason_ for her to do that, anyway.

She was just going to finish up this body and then go home because obviously it was not safe to be at the morgue today if escaped prisoners and their prison guard were going around threatening people.

After washing her hands and hanging up her white labcoat, Molly crept carefully through the halls of the hospital (always checking to make sure those four men hadn't come back (always checking to see if Jim _had)_).

So she _worthless_ to Jim.

_She should have known. _

She should have known he would get bored with her (she _had_ known. she just hadn't _cared._ she thought just _hoping _that he _wouldn't _would be _enough_. it _wasn't). _

…so what did she do_ now?_

Molly could feel her whole body buzzing (like the insignificant drone bee she was to Jim), still excited in fear from Doyle almost killing her…

…and she could feel the current of tears acuminating just behind the dam of her eyes.

_Oh well. _

She didn't need to hold the _floodgates_ for long, just until she got home and could be _alone._

She was _almost_ there_, almost_ outside, _she could make it..._

And then there was that _third emotion_ (other than fear and sadness)…that _third emotion _that Molly wasn't _supposed _to feel.

_Anger. _

Molly was _angry._

_(How_ could Jim _do this_ to _her? _How _dare _he?)

Maybe Molly_ should_ have 'cheated' on Jim at the hotel bar with Lestrade when she had the chance. Maybe _that _would have made him _care…_

(_Of course,_ Molly knew that this idea was _silly. If_ she had actually slept with (or even only _kissed_) Lestrade and Jim had _decided_ to care (because it was _his choice_ to care, she couldn't _make_ him) then it all just would have ended with both her and Lestrade dead (and tortured, too, probably). So _why_ would she bring an innocent, _good _man into her 'drama' with Jim just to _make him care? _It wouldn't even _work._ It was a pointless waste of time, really.)

Instantly, Molly _felt bad_ about her thoughts.

Revenge was not only _petty, _but _destructive._

It rarely hurt the person it was intended to _and instead_ hurt the avenger (and often many uninvolved bystanders as well).

And she _shouldn't _be wanting to hurt _anyone_.

That would just be…_bad._

Molly quickened her pace (she _didn't care_ if people looked at her strangely because of her speed (which they _didn't._ they didn't notice her at all) but she was _not_ going to let them look at her strangely because she was crying (which she _wasn't_…_yet)_.

But just as Molly neared the exit of St. Bartholomew's…she saw someone she thought she would never see again walk in.

…and it was _not_ Jim.

It was Robert, her half-'boyfriend' from medical school.

He entered the hospital, gazing around to take it in ('leave the country for a few years, come back and they change everything'), dressed in a suit rather than a doctor's attire (but he still wore the same style of thin, rimless rectangle glasses).

She recognized him (even though he was older _(wrinkly-er)_, tanner, with lighter (maybe graying a little bit, but mostly just naturally sun-lightened hair in a ponytail)…

…but would_ he_ recognize _her? _

He did.

"Molly?" he called, upon seeing her and then galloped towards her, "Molly Hooper? Is that you?"

"…yes, it is…that's me." Molly forced a smiled, "…You actually remember me?"

" 'Course I do!" Robert laughed, "I _never_ forget a face—especially such a pretty one! And we did have some good times back in school…"

"…yeah, we did…" Molly agreed, also laughing a little (but _a lot_ nervously).

_Yes,_ she was making this very awkward but she just couldn't help it (it was like a compulsion) and besides, she had just had a 'bad break-up' (to say the least) and now she 'just happened' to run into a (half) ex-boyfriend (the same day she was almost _murdered_)?

_How coincidental. _

(Molly remembered she had told Jim about Robert. What if Jim had somehow organized this as some kind of a _sick joke?)_

"Oh, don't be so _shy,_ Molly. I thought you would've grown outta that by now…" Robert chastised, still chuckling, "—_wait._ Don't tell me…you haven't forgotten who _I_ am, have you?"

"No!" Molly shook her head, "I haven't! I remember you, Robert—"

"—_Rob,_ please."

"Rob. Okay. Good…but why are you here?"

"Why am I here? You sound like you don't want me here!"

"No, no! It's not that! It's just—I mean, I thought you were in Southeast Asia…."

"I was. It was…nice. _Fun._ But I'm back in London."

"Are you going to be working here at the hospital, now?

"Well, not exactly. I was commissioned unofficially to do some work here—but not for Bart's. I'm just going to be temporarily burrowing a 'workshop' to do a job for an outside, but affiliated client."

_Great. _

So Robert had 'clients'…(_as if_ Molly actually _needed _another reminder of _someone_ (who she was _not_ going to think about) that had clients).

"Oh. I see." Molly accepted, "…So I'll be seeing you around, then?"

"I hope so." Robert grinned, "I really _have_ missed you."

* * *

><p>After meandering aimlessly along the streets of London, trying to figure how to find this mysterious new girlfriend of Jim Moriarty's, the remaining Rachen Men reached a coffee shop.<p>

"We should go inside and sit down so we can better plan our next move." Ricoletti decided, his injured foot tired and in pain.

Conan and Arthur followed him into the building, sitting down at the first table available that accommodated three people.

"What even happened to your wife, anyway?" Conan asked Ricoletti as they sat at the small wooden table.

"She got deported back to Italy." Ricoletti answered, sighing and holding his head in his hands, "I don't know what happened to her after that…it's all Moriarty's fault."

"I'm sorry." Conan sympathized, patting Ricoletti awkwardly on the shoulder from across the table.

"I'll go stand in line." Arthur offered, getting up, "Do you guys want anything?"

"Yes, please!" Conan exclaimed, enthusiastically, "Something to eat would be wonderful!...and more than one 'something' would be even better!"

"Okay." Arthur agreed, "One of everything, then." Conan nodded, smiling and Arthur turned to Ricoletti, "What about for you, Mr. Rico? What do _you_ want?"

"…I want revenge..." Ricoletti muttered, shaking his head (which still rested in his hands) at the table, "…I want that girlfriend…"

"…_okay_, then…" Arthur agreed (again) awkwardly, backing away until he could turn and dash into the line (cutting ahead of some people (now annoyed)) for the counter.

"What can I get you?" the barista inquired.

Oo_oh! _

She was _pretty…_

"Your number." Arthur requested, "I need a girlfriend…and so do my 'associates' over there."

He gestured to Conan and Ricoletti who sat at the table by the window.

"No!" Ricoletti shouted, sitting back upright again, his head shooting up to glare at Arthur, "That is _not _what I meant by 'girlfriend'. You _know_ I have a wife!"

"Yeah, but you said she got deported back to Portugal..." Arthur reminded, "…so I thought you might need a new girlfriend in the mean time…I was just trying to help…"

"Ugh!" The barista groaned, slapping her hand against the counter, "Why do men _always_ have to cheat?"

"What do you mean?" Arthur asked, innocently.

"Yeah, what _do_ you mean _'all men'?"_ Conan accused, standing up and stomping towards him and the barista (_also_ cutting in front of everyone else in line (now _very_ annoyed)).

"Well, there's this guy who comes in here, he's somewhat of a regular, actually—" the barista began, "—and I know it's not any of my business or anything…but he has this girlfriend, a cute mousy little thing who works over at Bart's, who he usually came here with and I _thought_ they were just the most _adorable _couple—_until _I saw him in here _again_, with a _different _girl! He's cheating on her! On them both, really! The _dirty slut_—and _yes_, men _can_ be 'sluts', too. They _are_ sluts. It's not fair that only _women _get the bad reputation and men just get to sleep around and do whatever they want and I think—"

During the course of the barista's rant (which everyone in line (including Conan and Arthur) had tuned out), Ricoletti had stood up and made his limping away over to the counter (cutting in front of all those in line (who, at this point, didn't care anymore).

"This…_other girlfriend_…" he interrupted, "…what was her _name?" _

"I dunno…" the barista shrugged, "Kelly or Kitty or something…why?"

Ricoletti didn't answer.

Instead, he was already hobbling towards the exit of the coffee shop.

Confused, both the barista and the other two Rachen Men watched him walk away.

"What is the delay, my friends?" he stopped, glancing back to ask Arthur and Conan, "…you heard the woman. We just found our 'girlfriend'."

"…_oh!_ I get it!" Conan declared, after a few moments of _hard thinking,_ "Moriarty's real girlfriend is that 'Kitty' woman! Good catch—ha, ha! Get it? I said 'catch'!"

Ricoletti rolled his eyes (but_ was_ glad that someone had appreciated his 'deduction' at least).

Conan, forgetting (for now) all about his desire of an early-afternoon snack, hurried after Ricoletti.

"…I don't get it…" Arthur whined after them, then quickly turning back to the barista and adding, "…and I never _did_ get your number, either."

"And you won't" she said, with a polite and cheerful smile.

"Oh well." Arthur sighed, "It was worth a shot…"

He turned and strolled away, running after Conan and Ricoletti as soon as he stepped outside.

* * *

><p>"Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal. How may I help you?"<p>

"You can 'help me' by giving me what you owe."

"…uh…and _who_ exactly am I speaking with today, sir?"

"You know who this is,_ 'sir'_. And I need my money. If you pay me back then we're even…but if you don't, I'm coming after you."

"Oooh, I'm _so_ scared. I think I just _wet my pants_—it tends to happen when people _threaten_ me. _Kinda turns me on…" _

"No more games, Moriarty. Money. Now. Meet me at—"

"Hold on just a minute, Lace Doily …I've got a call on the other line."

"Hey! _No!_ You're talking to _me!_ Don't—"

* * *

><p>"Consulting Criminal Enterprises, Jim Moriarty speaking. How may I help you?"<p>

"I believe you are _beyond _help at this point, Mr. Moriarty."

"Well, at Consulting Criminal Enterprises, _we_ believe that _no one_ is 'beyond help'."

"Your girlfriend_—'Kitty', is it?_ Yes. We know who she is—_She's_ 'beyond help'. We're going to kill her and you're going to learn the meaning of suffering."

"Ah, Antonio Ricoletti. _Mi amigo!_ Is that you?"

"Yes. It is. And I will have my revenge!"

"I'm here too! This is Arthur speaking! We've got the phone on speaker."

"I'll try to keep cursing and sexual references to a minimum, then. We at Consulting Criminal Enterprises don't like _potty mouths_."

"Well_ I_ don't like _you,_ Mr. Moriarty. You _betrayed_ us all and almost got me _trampled to death_ by prisoners!"

"Oh, Conan! You're here too! Look's like the gang's all but back together—by the way, what happened to Doyle to get him kicked off the island?"

"We didn't kick him out. He quit…I miss him already…"

"Mr. Doyle _didn't understand_ the _beauty _of revenge. The _simple_ man only understands _simple_ things, like _money_—_not_ love."

"'Love'? Teach me about that, Professor Rico, because I _want _to learn…"

"I'm going to teach you suffering and loss, _Mr._ Moriarty."

"But I wanted _you _to teach _me_ about love, Mr. M! The pretty lady at the coffee shop said you had _two_ girlfriends!_ I_ want to learn how to do _that!"_

"Well, it's really very easy, Arthur, _too easy._ You just—"

"Shut up, the both you!"

"Thank you, Conan. _Now,_ Moriarty, you must be quiet and listen to me—"

"_Actually,_ I've got someone one the other line…so if _you_ would hold on just a few _teensy weensy_ little moments, that'd be _great."_

"No! Wait! I'm not finished with you yet—"

* * *

><p>"<em>Doy-ull,<em> I'm _ba-ack!" _

"Good. Now let's get down to business. _Where_ is my money?"

"I dunno. It was there in the vault last _I _heard of it. It's not_ my_ problem that you couldn't get it out."

"Yes it is. It is your problem because you're going to have to give me that money…or else."

"'Or else'? Or else _what? _Least the boys on the other line have got a more concrete threat than _that_—and they don't even have an _'or'_, like something they want, like money, just an _'else'." _

"…What? What are you talking about? Who's on the other line?"

" 'The Rachen Men'—or whatever they call themselves. Your former 'roommates' for the big house."

"_They're _on the other line?"

"…yes…"

"What did they threaten you with?"

"Oh, just something silly. Killing my 'girlfriend Kitty'…"

"How convenient_._ _They_ can kill her and _you_ can give _me_ the money."

"Sorry, _sir_, I don't think _that's_ how the deal works. I think it's sorta an 'either or' kind of situation…"

"Well, then, how about _this…_ _You_ give me the money or_ I_ kill your girlfriend, Kitty."

"Sounds good to me!—but I don't know what the others'll think about that…so I'll go ask them. Be right back!"

* * *

><p>"And when he gets back on the line, you let <em>me<em> do the talking. _Understand?" _

"Yes, sir, Mr. Rico!"

"What about _me?" _

"You've got no stake in this, Conan. This is between Moriarty and I."

"No, we all agreed! We're in this together!"

"Yes, but I'm sure you can see why I'm the one that should speaking—"

"No. I don't…are you implying that I'm stupid?"

"Well if you weren't you wouldn't be asking that question, now would you?"

"I—you—_what?"_

"_Exactly." _

"Hey!"

"…_ahem._ Excuse me?"

"Guys, Mr. M's back!"

"He _is?" _

"Let me do the talking."

"I can call back later if you loverboys want to finish working out the _'kinks'_ of your _'partnership'_…"

"Stay on the phone!"

"Alright, alright—but only for a little bit. I've still got Doyle waiting patiently for me on the other line."

"Wait—what? _Doyle's_ on the other line? What does _he_ want?"

"Money, of course. Simple man, simple desires. Remember?"

"Well we've still got the only _leverage._ Your girlfriend."

"…um…_no._ Mr. D's got that too, I'm afraid. And _he's_ offering a better _deal;_ give him the money and he _won't_ kill Kitty. You three are just planning on _killing her_. Not much 'leverage' in that, really."

"_True_…and so there really is no reason for you to give Mr. Doyle the money then, now is there?

"You do kind of have a point, there, Mr. Rico—"

"But I have a better one. If you give me the money, I will offer protection for you and your girlfriend from Ricoletti, Conan and Arthur…I'll even kill them, if you pay me extra."

"Oh, I like that offer."

"Hey! Wait a minute! How did_ he_ get in on this call!"

"I joined the lines. I've got a smartphone, _smart one."_

_"Doyle!_ Is that _you?"_

"…Yes, Arthur. It's me."

"Hi, Doyle! How've you been, mate?"

"…Fine. You do realize it's only been half an hour since we separated?"

"Yeah. So? I'm just trying to make polite conversation…"

"Don't make polite conversation with him! He betrayed us and left The Rachen Men! He's the enemy!"

"…but I thought Mr. M was the enemy…"

"He is."

"But you just said—and then you said-oh, Conan, my head hurts…"

"This is hilarious. Real sitcom stuff, I could listen in all day, provide the laughtrack even…"

"This is ridiculous."

"Finally something we agree on, Mr. Ricoletti. This is _not _good business."

"Yes…and perhaps I have chosen the wrong associates. Mr. Doyle, would you care to reconsider a partnership?"

"I'll do anything to get the funds I need to return to my boss. If you're able to help me with that, I'll work with you. Give me the information you have on Moriarty's girlfriend Kitty so I can use her to get the money and when I'm finished you can do what you want to them both…_I'll _even help _you_ kill them, if you want. Tie up the loose ends."

"Hmmm. Alright. I accept your offer."

"Uh-oh…I don't like where _this_ is going."

"_You're _the one who joined the lines, Mr. M..."

"Shut up, Arthur! I told you not to talk to him!"

"You didn't tell me not to '_talk'_ to him, Conan, you told me not to make _'polite conversation' _with him."

"The King's right…on _both_ accounts. Which doesn't look too good for you, if you know what I mean, _Snow-Conan."_

"You calling me stupid, too!"

"Guess."

"No, don't listen to him, Conan! He's just trying to divide us."

"_I'm _trying to 'divide' you? _Never!_ In fact,_ if I remember correctly_, I'm the one who brought you four together in the first place…No, it's _Doyle_ trying to 'divide' The Rachen Men, first by leaving and now by stealing Ricoletti away from you two. They went and made their little two-man-team and now are leaving you out."

"Damn it, Arthur, I think Moriarty's right…I think Doyle and Ricoletti are working together and leaving us out."

"I'm not leaving you two out, I'm standing right here!"

"But you weren't saying anything! You're just texting with your phone…probably texting Doyle and making plans you're gonna leave me and Arthur out of."

"And is Doyle even still on the phone?"

"…No. I don't think he is. _How rude._ He hung up without saying 'goodbye'."

"I bet he wouldn't do that to Mr. Rico…"

"You've betrayed us, Ricoletti! You've betrayed The Rachen Men!"

"No! No I did not! It's like Arthur said before, Moriarty's attempting to divide us! Divide and conquer!"

"Oh yeah? Well who are you texting, then? It's Doyle, isn't it?"

"…I'm not going to dignify that with a response."

"It _is_ Doyle!"

"Scandal! Is Mr. Ricoletti _cheating_ on you two?"

"I am not—"

"Gimme that phone!"

"You can't just take my phone! That's _stealing!"_

"You would know, art thief!"

"Stop it, guys! Stop fighting!"

"Hang up the phone, Arthur, we don't need Moriarty hearing all of this."

"Oh, don't stop on _my_ account. I _enjoy _listening. I told you, I could do this all day…Hello? Hello? You boys still there…?...Hung up without saying goodbye. _How rude."_

* * *

><p>After retrieving his stolen phone from Conan, Ricoletti had stomped (well <em>tried<em> to stomp, limped actually) down the sidewalk away from him and Arthur.

The text messages on said phone detailed where Ricoletti and Doyle were to meet in order to continue their plans.

And Ricoletti was _not _walking all the way there.

As he traveled down the pavement, slower than most on the street, a black towncar pulled up beside him.

How convenient.

How coincidental.

…_too_ convenient…_too_ coincidental…

It halted, as did Ricoletti and a woman in a skirtsuit that matched the vehicle stepped out to open the car door for him.

"Antonio Ricoletti." She greeted, holding the door with one hand and her smartphone with the other.

"…Yes?" Ricoletti acknowledged, cautiously.

"The British government's got a deal for you." the woman said, "Get in."

And once Ricoletti was safely (?) inside the moving vehicle, the woman 'told him that if he would be reunited with his wife Rosetta in Italy where they would both go free—as long as he agreed to cease his pursuit for revenge against Jim Moriarty (and never steal or counterfeit anymore priceless artwork).

"_Why…?" _Ricoletti had asked, "Why is your government _protecting _Moriarty? I don't understand…"

And the woman had answered, "I don't know _'why'_. I don't even _ask._ It's not my _job,_ I just follow orders…"

At that Ricoletti had just sighed, sinking into the leather seat and admiring the brochure of the Mediterranean resort he and his wife would be moving two in secret (and on the dime of the British government).

He wondered how not having a 'why' was enough for people like this woman.

(And it wasn't until he was safely (?) on the plane back to Italy, that Ricoletti finally _did_ 'figure it out' as Moriarty had said he would. Kitty was _never_ the _'real'_ girlfriend, she was just the _distraction_…the distraction from Molly Hooper.)

* * *

><p>Doyle got into the taxi and told the driver to take him to the location he and Ricoletti had agreed to meet at.<p>

But soon he realized that he was being driven in the wrong direction.

"Where are we going?" Doyle demanded, instantly suspicious, "…and who do you work for?"

"I work for James Moriarty, Mr. Doyle." The driver stated, "And we are going to the Bank of England to withdraw the money you're owed."

Doyle could not see this man's face, on the back of his head (reddish-orange hair).

And, indeed, the cab maneuvered through the streets of London towards the bank Doyle had tried (and failed) to rob five weeks earlier.

"I'm glad Mr. Moriarty decided to accept my terms, then." He smiled.

"Yes, sir." The driver nodded.

"…You don't sound very glad, though." Doyle commented.

"It's just a job." The driver shrugged, "Why should I?"

And that was enough for Doyle.

* * *

><p>"Come on, sir! I know the only reason we're at this coffee shop is cause you know that girl from the morgue comes here and you thought that she might today."<p>

"No. I just want a good cup of coffee. Better than the shit they've got down at the Yard."

Anderson rolled his eyes and Lestrade shook his head.

They were standing in line, waiting for the (pretty) barista to finish with the customers ahead of them so that they could place their orders.

"Hmm," Anderson smirked, "Next time we should bring both Molly _and_ Sally along. Made this a double date…"

"I'm back with my wife!" Lestrade insisted, "And I, unlike you, am monogamous!"

"That's a free coffee for you, sir!" The Barista called past the people ahead to Lestrade from behind the counter.

"Thanks, miss!" Lestrade called past the people ahead, back to her.

"Well _she _sure isn't." Anderson reminded, "I don't understand why you keep going back to her when she always cheats…"

"Why don't you ask _your _wife and find out." Lestrade grumbled.

Before Anderson could retort, he and Lestrade heard the bell on the door ring as two more customers entered the coffee shop.

"Ugh, not _him_ again…" the barista complained, upon seeing them.

Lestrade and Anderson looked these two men over (one fat, one skinny. One blond and balding, one young and brown-haired).

One prison guard, one escaped prisoner.

_What the hell?_

"It's—it's _them!"_ Anderson sputtered (glad he hadn't gotten his coffee yet), "That's one of the three escapees and the other one's a guard!"

"He must be in on it." Lestrade 'deduced'.

"They're in it together!" Anderson exclaimed.

The two police officers drew their guns, causing all in the coffee shop to gasp (the barista ducking behind the counter), aiming towards on half of The Rachen Men.

Conan and Arthur froze where they stood (glad that they hadn't gotten their coffee yet or else they would have dropped their cups to the floor, spilling them everywhere).

"Put your hands up!" Lestrade commanded, approaching them, "You're under arrest!"

* * *

><p>Even though it was only eight o' clock at night, Molly was already in bed trying to sleep (and trying not to cry).<p>

Toby, of course, was there to comfort her (purring and rubbing his head against hers (wiping the tears from her cheek))…

…as was her cellphone.

It vibrated.

Molly picked it up from the blanket, gazing at the bright screen in through the darkened room.

She had received a text message.

…and it was_ not_ from Jim.

_Hey Molly!_

…_well this is embarrassing but my client just cancelled on me. _

_I look like kind of silly sitting here in the restaurant alone and I'm so lonely, too…_

…_do you think you can help me with that? _

_-Rob_

Molly sat up in bed, throwing the covers (and Toby) off of her as she _practically ran_ towards her closet.

As she searched through her (remaining) clothes, she texted a response to Robert.

_Yes. _

_I think I can. _

_-Molly _

Picking out her nicest dress (that Jim hadn't _stolen_ from her), Molly couldn't help but smile.

_Revenge was sweet. _

(Even if it _did_ involve innocent bystanders.)

* * *

><p>And Jim <em>practically ran<em> towards Kitty's home, bursting into her living room in a (pretend) panic.

He glanced around frantically, expecting to see either Doyle or Ricoletti (or _both)_ killing (and probably torturing) his 'girlfriend' Kitty.

And even though he didn't really care, he had to_ act_ like he did…or else they'd realize that he _didn't _and then start using something (_someone_) he actually _did _care about against him.

Like Sherlock Holmes (well it would _have _to be Sherlock Holmes, wouldn't it? Sherlock was the_ only_ person Jim cared about (and Jim was the _only_ person who was _allowed_ to kill (and torture, probably, too))…_definitely _the only person).

But when Jim jumped into the room, instead of one half of The Rachen Men, he saw his (ex) brother James Moriarty sitting at the dinner table.

He was sipping something (tea…or coffee?) from one of Kitty's mugs and reading the paper (some silly, petty tabloid about a washed up actor named Rich Brook), waiting patiently for him.

Jim slowed his paces, strolling leisurely up the stairs towards the table (and James).

"Sorry 'bout the mess." He apologized, "I wasn't expecting company."

"_Yes you were."_ James scoffed, folding the newspaper and setting it (and his cup) down, "…just not _me." _

"Please, make yourself at home." Jim rolled his eyes, "Lord knows I have. She's a great girl, Kitty. I'm really beginning to _like _them, now, _girls…" _

"Sit down, Jim, we need to talk." James stated , rolling _his_ eyes, "…_coffee?"_

* * *

><p><strong>And because I'm second guessing myself again, I've gotta just tell everyone straight out. <strong>

**Tea is a social device enemies (and friends and family members) use to keep meetings civil...  
><strong>

**...Coffee is a threat against Molly.  
><strong>

**Yep.  
><strong>

**lol.  
><strong>

**And lol I'm sorry 'Toby' (the reviewer) I have no clue who you are lol.  
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**I only have so much brainpower and it's all kinda devoted to this story and a lost hairclip...so at this moment I am unable to compare the grammar, word choice, spelling, capitalization, sentance structure, etc of all reviews in order to figure out who you are.  
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**You've got me.  
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**You win.  
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**lol.  
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**Still, review?  
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**(And that plea goes to everyone, of course...)  
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	36. Grim Brothers

**Well, I really have no excuse for being late with this one...except that it was rainy and I was sleepy.  
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**lol.  
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**Tomorrow I'm not going to school, though (hopefully), so I'll be able to write! ****  
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**yay!  
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**This ones kinda short, but we're getting towards the end here...  
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* * *

><p><strong>(Mid May, 2012) <strong>

"We had a _deal,_ Jim." James began, after a deep breath, "I set you free and you set me free."

"Then why are you here, _James?"_ Jim inquired, as he sat down at the table, cluttered with notebooks and newspapers, across from him, _"Just missed me?" _

"No."James corrected, "We agreed that you would no longer use the name James _or_ Jim Moriarty…and then you orchestrated 'crime of the century', got yourself arrested and your name—no, _my_ name all over news!"

"_Nobody gets it_—even _you_, brother, you just. don't. _get it!"_ Jim's groan turned to a laugh of disappointed disbelief, "It's all there, _it's all right there_ and all so _perfect. _Right in front of your _noses_! But nobody's picking up the _scent!_ Nobody's following the _trail_…" his exasperation faded to a sigh, "…sometimes I wonder why I even _bother_…"

"I wonder that too, sometimes" James muttered, rolling his eyes.

Jim smirked.

"It's all part of the plan, don't you see?" he said, "I'm doing _exactly_ what you told me to do. I'm following _the rules_…"

"What, by breaking the law?" James snorted.

"_No."_ Jim countered, "By building myself—_and Sherlock Holmes_—up…so I can _bring us both down."_

James raised an eyebrow, taking a sip of coffee from Kitty's mug.

He lifted the newspaper that's front page pictured Sherlock (in his 'trademark' dear stalker) and a headline about yet another case brilliantly (and quickly) solved.

"So all of _this_…" James guessed, gesturing to the paper, "…is to attract a large enough audience to fully _satisfy_ you when you kill Sherlock Holmes—and _inevitably yourself_, as well, in the process."

"Isn't he _beautiful_, James?_"_ Jim mused, gazing upon image of his enemy and then looking back up at his brother (and gazing upon the image of his enemy), "When this is over…there isn't going to _be_ a 'Sherlock Holmes' anymore. He won't just be dead. _No._ he'll be _worse_ than 'dead'. He'll simply cease to exist…_and so will I."_

James leaned back in his chair, pensively, examining Jim.

"Just what are you planning?" he questioned.

"Well it wouldn't be any fun if I just told you, you have to guess!" Jim snickered, "Besides, it wouldn't be fair either, I haven't told anyone else the whole thing—I've just given different bits of the story to different people. The puzzle's only complete up inside my brain…" he patted his head, "everyone else has got to put it together for themselves."

"You can tell me, Jim, it's okay…" James said, smile inching across his face, "We're _brothers,_ remember? We have the same name, t_he same mind…"_

"We _used_ to be brothers, we _used _to have the same name, yes…" Jim shook his head, laughing, "…but we've _never _had the same mind. If we _did_ you'd be able to figure out what—"

"I am. I _have."_ James interrupted, "_You're_ not going to kill Sherlock Holmes…you're going to make him _kill himself."_

"Very good, James, _very good…"_ Jim congratulated sarcastically, clapping.

James tossed the newspaper so it slid across the table to Jim.

"It won't work." James warned.

"Course it will." Jim grinned.

"No it _won't."_ James insisted, "Holmes has solved crimes, cold cases, from before he was even _born, _there's _no possibility_ he could have faked those. And even the more recent ones he's solved, they all can't have been simple fabrications. There were _actual clients_ involved, Jim, _think._ The _story doesn't add up."_

"It doesn't _need_ to add up." Jim replied, "You told me yourself, once. Truth and lies don't matter. It's all about believability..."

"Well your story is unbelievable." James countered, "The details—"

"No one _cares _about the details!" Jim exclaimed, "All people want is a _story!_ Something novel to keep them guessing, keep them from getting_ bored_…And it's _strange _too, _so very strange.._. Because everybody _loves_ fairytales but _nobody_ believes in _magic._ And what Sherlock Holmes does is magic—which is why everyone would rather believe it's just a _trick." _

"No such thing as magic, Jim." James sighed, "It's all science…"

"Yes." Jim smirked, "The 'Science of Deduction'."

James rolled his eyes, shaking his head.

"You know, it's actually _induction,_ what Holmes does, not 'deduction'." He groaned, "He doesn't _de_duce, he _in_duces. Shame nobody reads the dictionary anymore…"

"Oh yeah, that and the encyclopedia, too." Jim agreed, sarcastically, "Your favorite bedtime stories, right, James?"

"Of course." James nodded, "Because they're _true._ I may lie, I may pretend…but I never accept_ fiction _from anybody else."

"You're no fun." Jim pouted, "You always spoil everything…for me, at least. Like when I was ten and you told me how the magicians up on stage did their tricks; all smoke and mirrors…"

"I'm sorry, Jim, but the truth is the truth." James said, "Disappointing, isn't it? Even the most interesting and exciting things are actually all quite _ordinary."_

" '_Ordinary'_…" Jim repeated, elongating the 'o' and shaping his mouth to match it, "Never liked that word until our friend Mycroft Holmes _intro_duced me."

"Why?" James inquired, "It's only a word."

"What do you mean, _'only a word'?"_ Jim inquired incredulously, "Words are _everything._ It's _language _determines how we _think."_

"How _you_ think, perhaps…" James sneered, "..and _perhaps _that is your flaw. _I,_ however, think in _numbers. _Much more _concrete. _Everything always makes _sense."_

"You're right." Jim shrugged, "The word 'ordinary' doesn't make any sense at all. It means _normal, common-place,_ I've read the dictionary…but then 'extraordinary' means something _brilliant, unbelievable_…it doesn't _'add up'_. 'Extra' means _more._ So shouldn't 'extraordinary' just mean _more_ 'ordinary'…_more _'normal'?"

"It doesn't matter." James replied, also shrugged, "It's only a word. And words could mean any number of different things and often _do._ They're so easily misinterpreted, _twisted_…_actions _are what count. "

Jim laughed at this.

"I wouldn't be so sure about actions, they're just as easily 'twisted' themselves." He said, "In fact,_ you_ misinterpreted _my_ actions…I never_ actually_ gave Sherlock the keycode. Or gave it to_ anyone,_ for that matter. No one knows it…_and no one ever will_—except, of course, you and me, brother, in our _same mind. _And so that means you kinda _disowned_ me-so _dramatically_, by the way, the books were a nice touch, I really _liked_ that bit—for _nothing." _

"If that's _true_…." James responded, shocked and skeptical, "…then why would you go through all that trouble, pretending to take your 'revenge' against me?"

"Because I was angry_, okay?"_ Jim sighed, "I overreacted and I'm _sorry. _Now I just want to make it all _good _again between me and you, like it was before. _I just want to get my brother back…"_

"Things were never 'good' between you and I." James dismissed, "So what do you _really _want?"

"I want your help." Jim stated.

"What would I get out of giving you what you want?" James scoffed, "Why should I help you?

"Because if you do…" Jim smiled, "When this is over, you'll be rid of me forever…I _promise."_

* * *

><p><strong>(Early May, 2012)<strong>

Toby was napping in the bathroom sink when he heard the door click unlocked and open.

Molly?

…_no._

Those weren't _her_ footsteps on the carpet, that wasn't _her_ smell…

Toby jumped up out of the sink and trotted out of the bathroom to see Jim tip-toeing into Molly's flat (glancing around the entry hallway, nervously, checking to make sure nobody was home).

He was carrying a suitcase in one hand, and plastic bag in the other.

Toby crouched (just around the corner, just out of Jim's line of sight), waited for the right moment (just as Jim was rounding the corner into Molly's bedroom) and _pounced._

Jim tried to block the cat with the suitcase, but ended up getting stabbed by Toby's tiny retractable knives in the leg, anyway.

Forcefully, Jim shook Toby off of him.

Toby landed on his feet (because that's what cats do), bristling his fur and hissing, claws digging into the carpet.

"What's _your_ problem?" Jim asked.

He set down the suitcase and then with his free hand reached into the plastic bag, pulling out the catnip laced treats he'd brought and tossing them towards Toby.

Toby tentatively sniffed one of the small, round objects _(food?)_ and then, deciding it was safe, lapped it into his mouth.

Instantly his eyes dilated and soon he was practically dancing around the hall.

With the cat thoroughly distracted, Jim was now able to continue into the bedroom where he unloaded the contents of the suitcase (Molly's clothing) into their proper places (closet, dresser drawers).

Jim didn't really understand why Molly wanted these unfashionable (and/or boring and plain) clothes back…

(He'd offered multiple times to pick out and purchase for her a better wardrobe but she'd always refused.

The one time they had actually gone shopping she wouldn't even come out of the changing room because she was too _embarrassed _wearing the outfit Jim had chosen for her( which, in his opinion, was very sexy and chic) —when she should have, of course, been too embarrassed to wear what she had put on that morning (which Jim, if he were her, _certainly _would have been).)

…but there was no logical reason for him to keep them. They took up too much space, were ugly, and imagine if Kitty saw and asked just_ why_ Jim had a suitcase full of women's clothing.

And so, Molly could have them if she wanted them so bad. They were hers anyway.

Besides, this all proved that Molly was _nothing_ to him and that he could sever the rope binding them together just as easily as he had tied it. It _proved _it.

Molly wasn't Sherlock.

She didn't count.

…so_ why_ couldn't Jim return to her those pink panties?

* * *

><p><strong>(Mid May, 2012) <strong>

Within the next few weeks, Molly's 'life' returned to 'normal'.

…which was _strange._

Recently, she had become so accustomed to the 'rule' that whenever anything started to be certain, started to be _normal_—then it _wouldn't_ be.

_Things would change. _

And they always, always _did. _

So _this _(this being Jim having come into her life like a flash flood, intense and then suddenly _gone_), Molly reasoned, was just another part of that. _Her life was just following the rules…_

Molly was never late for work anymore, she never missed any days or took any time off.

The only thing of any_ interest _in Molly's boring little world now was the occasional Sherlock (distant and temperamental as usual) and those days when she 'just happened' to pass by Robert in the halls of the hospital (so they could smile at each other, and then she could look down and away blushing, and they'd both keep walking but maybe he'd text her later and ask if she was available that night (Molly always was) and they'd meet up and things would be like the 'good old days' again and it would be maybe even kind of fun, actually, because _this time_ Molly didn't _care_ that Robert was 'using' her and _this time_ Molly was _pretending). _

Was it _pitiful_, Molly wondered, that she _lived _for these _little distractions?_

She also wondered where Jim was and what he was doing.

She'd feared (naively, _hopefully_) that he hadn't _wanted_ to leave her and that he'd been_ forced _to somehow (or that he was _dead_—oh, god, that was_ terrible_ of her)…

…but Molly had come home one morning to find all her clothes (and whatever other items she had left at Jim's hotel room) back in their normal places in her flat.

That and what Jim had said the other day when those men had attempted to use her to get to him (Their mistake. You have to have something of _value_ in order to bargain. They were _stupid._ Molly was _worthless.) _proved that they he _just didn't care_ about her at all (and maybe even had a new girlfriend, too). _Proved it. _

**(June 15, 2012) **

"Just talk to him." Anthea had urged, "He's your—"

"No." Mycroft had refused, "I can't. Get John."

So now Anthea was in her normal place in the backseat of the car, doing all her deskwork by smartphone like she always did.

And she was bored.

"You going to ask me out again, John?"

Anthea looked up from her phone, turning to John who had been sitting quietly, staring out the window until she had spoken.

He laughed (and it was both polite a_nd _sarcastic at the same time. _impressive). _

"No. That didn't go to well the last time and I don't try the same thing over again expecting a different result. That's _insanity_, you know, and I've been trying to convince my therapist I'm not crazy."

An Anthea laughed, too, at this (she had too, but it was actually genuine).

Then she raised an eyebrow.

"Or maybe you've just found somebody _else…"_

And then John raised an eyebrow.

"Read the papers, lately? I'm '_confirmed_ bachelor' Watson, now."

"What they put in the papers aren't always true."

John shrugged.

"Yeah, well, they do get the weather wrong often enough…"

"Among other things—you _do_ get where I'm going with this, right, John?"

"_Yes._ I _do_…and I was actually trying to steer the conversation_ away_ from that topic."

John rolled his eyes.

Anthea smiled.

"I won't tell Mycroft about it. _I promise—"_

"You're lying. _And besides_, he's probably got the flat bugged, anyway. You both know nothing's 'going on' between me and Sherlock."

"Nothing on the outside maybe, nothing yet—but on the inside…yes. Something is definitely, definitely 'going on' between you and Sherlock Holmes… Mr. Holmes—that is, my employer, Mr. Holmes. Mycroft Holmes—said he's never known his brother to_ care_ about anyone like this before."

"Oh. Okay. Well, then, I've got to inform your employer, Mr. Holmes, that in addition to my 'secret affair' with Sherlock, he's also got a thing 'going on' with Mrs. Hudson, as well. Because he cares about her, too, and that _always _means something, doesn't it?"

And it actually_ impressed _Anthea how John was able to say all that with a completely straight face.

Maybe she shouldhave gone out with him, after all…

"I'll put that down into my schedule."

Anthea was joking, of course, as she glanced back down at her smartphone, pretending to type.

She was _also_ hoping that maybe, upon hearing the word 'schedule', John would take the hint and ask her if there was any room in it for him—even if only to _prove _he was straight and_ nothing _was 'going on' between him and Sherlock.

He didn't.

(And did that mean that he just didn't _catch it_…or that he just wasn't _crazy?_ Anthea didn't know.)

"_Look,"_ John said, after a sigh and Anthea looked back up from her phone at him, "I _do_ care about Sherlock and he cares about me—at least, I _think_ he does, anyway. You never really _can_ be sure what—or even _if_—he's feeling…But it's_ not_ how you—or anyone, _especially _the papers—think. It's _not_ romantic. _At all._ Sherlock and I…we're like _brothers._ It's like how it was in the army. You get close to the guys you're working with, you really care about them, since you live in close quarters and have been through so much together…but that doesn't mean anything's 'going on'. Because it's _not. _It's just a bit more…_intense_ cause it's just me and him."

"Like brothers?" Anthea repeated.

"Yes." John affirmed.

"And Sherlock feels this way too?" Anthea asked.

"I told you, I don't know." John stated, "But when you text what I'm saying to Mycroft you can tell him not to take it personally if Sherlock does consider me more of a brother than Mycroft."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes has learned along time ago not to take his brother's…_eccentricities_ personally." Anthea scoffed, as she indeed texted (without even needing to look at the screen, she _was_ a _professional,_ after all).

"Good." John said, "So maybe next 'Mr. Holmes' can learn to mind his own business, if at all possible. You, too, 'Anthea'—_was it?"_

"_Athena."_ Anthea corrected (as if she was actually _correct_), "Like the goddess of wisdom."

"Oh. Very good, then, _'Athena'_." John nodded (politely_ and_ sarcastically at the same time. _annoying). _

And he smiled and she smiled.

(And then Anthea 'forgot' to tell John the 'no talking' rule of the Diogenes Club when she dropped him off to see Mycroft.)

* * *

><p><strong>(Summer, 2006) <strong>

"And so what are you going to do, then? Throw your whole life away?"

Molly had to fight to keep her voice down as she whispered harshly at her twenty year old sister.

Their father was just down the hall, immobile and _hopefully _sleeping through all this. _Hopefully._

And _dying,_ he was _still_ dying.

(Which also meant that he was still _alive.) _

Leaning against the wall, scowling and avoiding eye-contact, was Molly's little sister.

She was _in love._

_Again. _

And she was going to run away with this _no-good, bad-boy, flavor-of the-week_ and escape the monotony and conformity of modern society (or whatever the bands they listened to's melodic lyrics (orders) told them to do) to be with him forever.

_Yeah, sure. _

Molly, at least, knew better.

(Although not from experience.)

But her sister, of course, _didn't _(or if she _did_, she didn't _care)_ and so continued to declare that she was_ leaving_ because she was _tired of all this. _

_('all this'_ meaning the stress of her father still dying just down the hall, when put into perspective—which both she and Molly were too emotional to have at the moment.)

"I'm not throwing my life away!" Molly's sister insisted, "I love him. He's all I want, all I need…"

"That is just so _stupid!"_ Molly almost shouted, then remembering her father and so, instead, squeaked, "You should be focusing on getting an education, so you can have a job, have a _life._ Leaving everything you have, all for some _boy?_ You are just so—so…_petty!"_

"Why _should _I get an education?" her sister demanded, "Why _should _I get a job? Just cause people tell me to, just cause everybody else does? That's not a reason at all. And _why _do people even get educations, get jobs, anyway? All for the money. And people only want _money_ because they think they can buy them what they need to be happy…But do you know what makes people _happy,_ Molly? It's not _money._ It's _love_…and I, I've found love and so I'm _happy."_

Molly was taken-aback and at a loss for words.

What her sister (her stupid, petty, _baby _sister) had said actually _made sense. _

…but that didn't mean she was _right._

"It won't last." Molly told her, "You may be in love with him now, you may be happy now…but it _won't last." _

"And why _not?"_ her sister asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Because it never does." Molly answered. And that was the only explanation, really.

_Just because. _

"Maybe not for _you, _Molly…" her sister countered, finally looking Molly in the eyes, "…but it w_ill, _for _me._ Because_ I_, unlike _you_, am willing to _trade everything_, _give anything_ to _get what I want._ And sometimes you need to break the rules. I don't _care_ because I love him and nothing else matters. _Nothing…_you would know this too, if you weren't too scared to ever let yourself be happy."

And with that, Molly's little sister pushed past her and was _gone._

**(Early May, 2012) **

And Molly wanted to call Jim.

She wanted to beg him to come back and tell him that she didn't care who he was or what he'd done and that they could be happy together, she'd do anything for them to be happy together.

But that was just late at night while she was lying alone in bed, or bored at work cutting into a bloated patient who had died alone in their apartment and hadn't even been found for days.

She wanted to call Jim, yes, and keep calling and calling until he answered.

Until he came back (to her).

But _she knew_ he would _not_ answer and he would _not_ come back (to her) and Molly was not going to waste her time doing the same thing again and again expecting a different result.

She may have been lonely, she may have been pitiful, she may have been _nothing…_

…but Molly was _not _stupid.

And she was_ not_ crazy.

Definitely, definitely, definitely not crazy…

* * *

><p><strong>(Late May, 2012)<strong>

The next time Jim cautiously (not confidently, like he 'owned the place') pushed open the door to Molly's flat and walked inside, Toby came bounding up to him and rubbing against Richard Brooke's jeans, as if he hadn't _attacked_ him only a couple weeks earlier.

It was funny how _forgiving_ cats could be.

(Not _forgetful,_ though, because Toby had never forgotten Jim.)

Jim wondered if Molly would be as forgiving if she ever saw him again…

…or if she had_ forgotten_ all about him in the time he was gone.

He also wondered if _Sherlock_ had forgotten about him, too. The consulting detective hadn't heard a peep out of Jim since for almost two months now, which should have been _suspicious, _considering the threat (promise) Jim had made to him.

What if neither Molly_ nor_Sherlock remembered him?

What if _nobody_ did?

(Even the newspapers had stopped running 'Crime of the Century' stories about the notorious James Moriarty—although they printed a new Sherlock Holmes case every week, still.)

And if everyone _had _forgotten about Jim, then it was like he had _ceased to exist_ (and it was _too soon_ for that!).

This was a problem.

Jim didn't_ like_ to be _alone._

He always did get _lonely…_

And_ people_ were the distractions that kept him from being lonely (just like they kept him from being _bored_—he _had_ to _keep busy_), it didn't even matter who they were.

Jim just needed _someone._

(Because if he was ever _alone,_ ever_ truly_ alone, Jim just wouldn't know what to _do._ He'd probably _self-destruct…)_

Perhaps that was why Molly had been so _convenient._

She was _always _available.

_Sure,_ she was no _Sherlock…_but she was _there. _

…except not _anymore._

And it was _self-sacrificial,_ really, Jim 'leaving' Molly.

If he_ hadn't_ left, cruel fishermen like Mycroft would cast her like a worm on a hook into the water just so they could catch him.

And although fishing might not have been Jim's sport, he knew enough about it to know that, at the end of the long day, both the fish and the worm were dead.

Fish sometimes got thrown back into the sea; he worms, however, always got stabbed, drowned and eaten.

So Jim was really being a Good Samaritan when he had left Molly, even if it did make her cry, call him and text him again and again.

He was only trying to protect her…

…by not letting her be used as a weapon against him because then that made her a _weakness_ to him and weaknesses to him made him _weak._

It was all selfish and self-preserving!

But still, just because Jim had left Molly didn't mean Molly could leave Jim.

She was supposed to be _his._

(He had promised Sherlock he'd_ steal_ her from him, didn't he? And Jim _kept his promises.)_

Molly was a really valuable possession to him (right up there with his phone and his favorite tie) so even if he couldn't 'spend time' (or actually even just spend time) with her at the moment, he still had to remind her of his existence (and remind her that he remembered her existence).

Jim leaned down to pet Toby with one hand, taking care not to damage the flowers for Molly in the other.

(Flowers were kind of their '_thing'_ now, Jim had decided. It was _crime_ with _Sherlock,_ their _shared name_ with _James,_ and _flowers _with _Molly_. Those were the _games_ and these were the _rules.)_

They were azaleas, this time.

(And he knew she'd look up the meaning on the internet again, too. It was something between fragile, careful and passion. Didn't make any sense, really…)

_Rhododendron ponticum._

* * *

><p><strong>(June 13, 2012)<strong>

Jim opened the oven, pulling the door down with one hand while he tried to wave the smoke that came rushing out away from his face with the other.

He had to jump back, the smoke stinging his eyes and burning his throat even though he was now holding his breath.

(Jim didn't understand how Sherlock could smoke, how he could stand it. Smoke, itself, was positively_ painful_…)

He then opened every available window in Kitty's townhouse (to air it out…_and _so the smoke detector wouldn't go off), afterwards donning her purple oven-mitts on both hands.

But before Jim could pull the poor dying men from the burning building (pull the gingerbread men out of the oven), he heard a knock on the door.

"_Who is it?"_ Jim called out in a sing-song voice, already on his way to the front door.

The absence of an answer _was_ the answer.

And so, when Jim opened the door he saw exactly who he was expecting to see.

James Moriarty and Sebastian Moran.

(And neither of them looked very happy to be there.)

"Good afternoon, gentlemen!" Jim exclaimed, "So nice to see you boys again. Please, come in!"

He stepped aside to allow for their entry.

Moran (deliberately avoiding eye-contact with Jim) scanned the living room to make sure it was safe before walking inside.

James followed him, Moran then going back around him to close the door behind them.

Jim watched them, waiting 'patiently' (by tapping his foot and fingers) for them to finish their pretend security check.

But by the time Moran was still looking behind the couch and the television and under the tables and chairs _(and what exactly was he even expecting to find?), _Jim finished his pretend politeness.

"Oh, _come on!" _he groaned, rolling his eyes, "I_ know_ you've got place bugged. And you _both_ know there's nothing _'scary' _here…so let's just get down to business, shall we?"

Moran straightened from where he had been pulling up the sofa cushions, searching underneath.

He sniffed the still smoky air, causing James to do the same.

"Was there a _fire_ here?" James questioned, suspiciously, glancing around for signs of damage.

Jim strolled over, flopping onto the out-of-place cushions and resting with his arms behind his head.

"I was just cooking." he explained, "Gingerbread men. They're cooling off now…"

He gestured towards the oven upstairs.

"I see your 'girlfriend' has _domesticated _you, Jim." James commented, moving to stand in front of the sofa, "You _never_ cooked when we were at home."

"And I'm still no good at it, too." Jim lamented, "But I'm learning…maybe _you_ can _teach_ me, professor?"

James rolled his eyes.

"You've always refused to learn." He said.

"Or, perhaps, _you're _just a bad teacher." Jim responded, "…_Kitty's_ not. She's so brilliant, she's taught me to make—"

"Save your lies for someone who'll believe them." James interrupted, curtly, "And you're _right._ I _do _have this address under surveillance. And so I know that Kathleen Riley means _nothing_ to you. She's not even a proper distraction for you, you don't even enjoy toying with her—_or_ sleeping with her."

"Finally told her I was gay." Jim shrugged, "She didn't _care._ I think she _likes_ it, actually._ Likes_ submissive little boys who can't hurt her the way her daddy hurt her mummy…"

"Whatever keeps you under control." James conceded, also shrugging, "but _don't _think I've _forgotten _about Molly Hooper."

"_I_ have." Jim replied.

He was ly_ing, _of course.

And James _knew._

(And Jim knew that James knew.)

"Well, she plays no part in your plan and as long as she remains uninvolved, I will have no reason to have her killed," James stated, "And when this is all over, whether you, Richard Brooke, chose to remember Miss Hooper or not, will no longer be my be my _problem." _

"That's nice." Jim accepted, blandly, "…now have you picked up the things on my 'shopping list' I asked you to?"

"Yes." James nodded, "I purchased the abandoned chocolate factory you requested."

"Good." Jim nodded, smiling and closing his eyes, _"Next." _

"I also located the perfect targets for the kidnapping you'll frame Sherlock Holmes for." James continued, "Tomorrow there is a certain boarding school that, as you know, will be letting out for the summer…two children, a boy and a girl, however, will be staying. Their parents are divorced and both out of the country on business. Their father is an ambassador to the United States, his prominence assures that the children's disappearance will garner the necessary attention—of the police _and_ Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, _no!"_ Jim complained, "You've made it too _easy_…I get_ bored_ when things are too easy..."

"You're planning to kidnap the children _yourself?" _James inquired, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course." Jim snorted, "I love kids."

"...I _see."_ James accepted.

Both he and Moran eyed Jim uncomfortably, then exchanging an uncomfortable glance in the following uncomfortable silence.

Jim opened his eyes to see this, chuckling.

"_Besides,"_ he added, "There are just some things you've got to do _yourself…"_

"_Some _things," James agreed, "But not _all_…You asked for _three_ gunmen?"

"Mm-hm," Jim nodded, closing his eyes again.

"Not four?" James clarified.

"What would I need_ four_ for?" Jim dismissed in a confused mumbled, as if James was _stupid _simply for _suggesting _it.

"No reason." James responded.

"Just who are these gunmen, anyway?" Jim asked, "I trust you'd get me only the 'best of the best'."

"I have." James confirmed, "I've hired the Australian for the Hudson woman, out of convenience since he's already moved to Baker Street, seeking the code. And I already have my inside man at Scotland Yard on the Detective Inspector. And for Doctor Watson—"

"_No."_ Jim interrupted, sitting up, "Whoever you've hired to kill the good doctor_, fire him."  
><em>  
>"Whatever for?" James inquired, taken-aback, "You haven't even heard who I've got yet."<p>

"It doesn't matter." Jim declared, "There's only one person worthy of training a gun on Doctor John Watson…and I think we all know who that is."

James eyes followed Jim's sight until it finally rested on Moran (who was deliberately not making eye-contact and instead pretending to search a trash bin).

"No." James refused.

"Why _not?"_ Jim whined, jumping up from the couch, "Come on, James, 'help a brother out'! Please—"

"No." James repeated, "I'm not risking my best man on one of your ridiculous _schemes. _There is a high probability that this could go wrong. It's not safe for Mr. Moran to be involved. He's too valuable to me."

"Oh, _okay_, James_, I_ understand." Jim smiled, giving James an exaggerated 'knowing-look', "Sebby's _'valuable'_ to you, _I _see…"

(But Jim _didn't_ 'understand' now. The fact that James would openly declare Moran's importance to him, _despite _knowing _exactly_ how Jim would interpret that, caused Jim to re-interpret the sentiment all together (forgetting, _of course_, that James was smarter than him and so knew he'd do_ that_ too).)

Suddenly, Moran turned to James and Jim, speaking for the first time during this 'visit'.

"I'll do it." He said, looking at James, "…I want to make sure this thing gets done _right_—so that we can finally get it _over _with." He then looked at Jim, "Besides, like you said, there are just some things you've got to do yourself."

Jim grinned.

"_See,_ brother?" He boasted, "Even your maid-of-honor—I mean 'best man'—thinks it's a good idea. You've _got_ to let me—well, _John,_ really—have him now."

"…Fine." James conceded.

"_Don't_ call him 'brother'." Moran snapped at Jim, albeit _coolly_ (all anger invisible behind his expressionless mask, "…this is the last time he's ever going to help you, protect you or even_ see_ you again. So now you should thank him for putting up with you all these years, and then say goodbye."

James blinked, clearly surprised as this was the closest Moran had ever come to an outburst (at least in James's presence)…but upon remembering his thinning, graying hair he decided he agreed _completely_ with Moran's statement.

"Alright." Jim agreed, shrugging at Moran before he turned to James and patted him on both shoulders saying, "Thank you, and goodbye, my dear brother James, _thank you and goodbye…"_

* * *

><p><strong>(Early June, 2012)<strong>

Molly found the new flowers in the vase in on the counter.

…so Jim hadn't forgotten about her after all…

She sat down on the stool, staring at them, Toby up on the countertop as well waiting 'patiently' (pacing back and forth and mewing insistently) for her to pet him.

Her laptop was (plugged in, charging) sitting on the table nearby, she knew she could search up the flowers' (and it was just one type, this time—she didn't know their name but she knew she could find out) meaning but she didn't want to.

What if they meant _'goodbye'…?_

Molly sighed, reaching for one of the purple flower and pulling it out of the vase by the stem to smell it.

But before the pedals could touch her nose and she could breathe in their scent, lifting the flower out of the vase caused something else to fall out as well.

It was a tiny, torn piece of newspaper that coasted through the air before landing in front of Molly.

Molly recognized the handwriting scrawled on the scrap.

_They're azaleas. _

_And I'm a dirty rotten liar._

_Forget me not, _

_Jim__  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Well...<strong>

**...hmm...  
><strong>

**lol.  
><strong>

**So yeah.  
><strong>

**And really, moriartylovesfrenchfries/toby?  
><strong>

**It's not like I didn't think it was you...until you said "stop reviewing for both" as Toby-and then you went and reviewed as Moriarty.  
><strong>

**lol.  
><strong>

**You _won_...but you_ cheated. _  
><strong>

**lol.  
><strong>

**And this is the last time I'm gonna address a reviewer in chapter lol. It's against the site's rules, actually...**

**...and it's not fair to everyone else who doesn't get a 'shout-out' (I LOVE YOU ALL!)**

**So make an account, 'fellow American', review with it, and we can chat.  
><strong>

**I (almost) always reply signed reviews.  
><strong>

**And _speaking_ of_ reviews..._  
><strong>


	37. Heroes and Villians

**Well looks like that posting schedule I was talking 'bout before is gonna be like once a week...**_  
><em>

**...least until summer.  
><strong>

**idk.  
><strong>

**Writing isn't as fun for me anymore, idk why lol.  
><strong>

**I guess if anything becomes a 'job' its gets tiring lol.  
><strong>

**So I decided to refrence some shit I've actually read for once.  
><strong>

**I can't seem to stop myself from making refrences.  
><strong>

**I'm sorry.  
><strong>

**Inside, you'll find a bit of 'Batman' because it works and because Batman The Animated Series totally made my eigth and ninth grade years.  
><strong>

**And because it works, too, which others have noticed.  
><strong>

**So of course I had to bring in 'Mad Love' the only comic I've ever read (illegally online) after watching the episode.  
><strong>

**Sorry if you've got no idea what I'm talking about lol.  
><strong>

**And you'll also find my favorite short story ever 'How to Tell a True War Story' by Tim O'Brien.  
><strong>

**You can actually find it at this link: **

**http :/ students. ed. uiuc. edu / schopf / assignments / truewarstory . html  
><strong>

**(remove spaces, of course)  
><strong>

**Just scroll down a bit.  
><strong>

**And one final note...  
><strong>

**Try not to hate Sally Donovan, for me, please?  
><strong>

**She looks too much like me for me to be able to hate her (yes, what a creative way to finally come out as black-not that it actually matters lol).**

** And I know how it feels to be resentful of those who are better than I am-and although bullying wouldn't be my choice of action had I met Sherlock Holmes...  
><strong>

**...I know I would definitely not like to hang around him since I'm the kinda person who's got to be the smartest in the room.  
><strong>

**I'd probably just avoid him lol.  
><strong>

**So well, I hope you like this chapter, of course.  
><strong>

**And please don't get weirded out at how it starts lol.  
><strong>

**I'm sure you've all learned to live with my wierdness by now.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>It's cheese.<em>

_It's cheese._

_It's cheese that makes the world go round._

* * *

><p>It was not-too-warm, not-too-cool, sunny (but not burning) morning.<p>

The perfect day to begin summer.

Which is what the children were doing, occupying the crisply mowed front lawn _(ahh, the smell of fresh cut grass_—summer) of the boarding school, distracting themselves by playing games until their parents arrived to take them home and set them free.

There was a group of boys (an odd number, uneven teams—_not fair)_ attempting to kick a ball around without it being accidently punted too far from their _territory_…

…and into the territory of the _girls._

The borders between the boy and girl boarders of the boarding school were not drawn imaginarily by fear of 'cooties', but by the rules.

Males and females slept in separate rooms, used separate bathrooms and locker-rooms, they _never _played together (and only ever worked together when teachers assigned _(forced)_ them to).

Today, the line was drawn by concrete path cut into the lawn up to the front of the school.

Boys on one side, girls on the other.

Nobody had to tell them this, these were just the _rules_ and the children _knew_ the rules.

Jim strolled up this path, a few paces behind a friendly couple…

(Friendly but _nervous_ (clinging to each other)—even though they had come together. And without a driver, either. They'd driven themselves, park a little ways down the road instead of by the school…and look at those clothes (old, inexpensive). They're child must sort of a scholarship kid…Although, among the children, it was impossible to tell which one was theirs since the school uniforms were the 'great _equalizer'_.)

…right in the middle of this 'line between girls and boys', taking time to examine each side in search of his targets.

_Most_ of the boys were running around, playing with sports equipment or just rough-housing because 'boys will be boys' and that's what boys do—but not _all _of them.

There was a small circle of boys playing with trading cards, and another boy seated under a tree reading _(Aww, how cute, a child who enjoys reading (Aww, how cute, a social outcast))_.

Jim passed by them and then looked over to the girls.

_Most_ of the girls were sitting, chatting _(gossiping_—alas, they start so young…) and being well-manner, well-behaved young ladies who played with pretty dolls because that's what _girls_ do—but, _of course_, not _all_ of them.

Some of the girls were running around just as much as the boys were (although the boys wouldn't let them play with them. _Boo hoo.)_, playing tag or hide-and-seek and climbing trees.

However, it was the song that a small circle of girls were singing that Jim'just happened' but _overhear. _

It was something about cheese making the world go round—_no._ Cheese making the _mice_ 'go round' and then the mice making the cats 'go round' and the cats making the dogs 'go round' (and so on, and so on).

Or _something_ like that.

Well, anyway, it caused Jim to chuckle to himself since he'd always had a fondness for mice ever since…

Suddenly, Jim was on the grassy ground.

He'd been shot in the stomach with a cannon ball (_hit_ in the stomach with a _normal _ball) and knocked backwards onto the girls' side of the lawn.

Jim _would have _seen it coming and _would have_ been able to dodge (since he'd been the _champion_ of dodge ball back when he was in school) had he not been _distracted_ by the song (yes. by the song. _definitely). _

Now, all attention outside the school was focused on

Rushing towards him, chasing after their ball, was the odd number of boys, shouting and waving their hands.

But before they reached Jim, they stopped short on the sidewalk, unwilling to break the rules and cross over into _girl territory._

"Excuse me, sir?" the first boy, taller than the rest (and so the leader), "May we have our ball back? I'm sorry it hit you."

Jim sighed, rolling his eyes as he rose from the ground.

"Well, since you boys asked _so nicely..." _he began, bending sideways to retrieve the ball idling by his feet and then holding it out to the boys.

"Thank you, sir." The first boy smiled.

He reached for the ball but before he could take it from Jim's extended hand, Jim tossed it backwards onto the grass far behind him, deep into the foreign and dangerous ground of the girls.

The group gaped in shock and horror as they watched their ball soar through the air, land, bounce a couple times and then roll further and further away from them, stopping right next to an odd number of girls (who _had_ been giggling amongst themselves but were now _also _gaping in shock and horror, too).

"Go and get it, boys." Jim grinned as he continued down the path, then looking back to add, "Oh, and don't forget to have _fun_…"

With that, Jim walked away, leaving everyone else (boys and girls) just standing there, immobile and unsure.

When he reached the boarding school, Jim politely stepped aside and even held the front door open for the man and woman who exited, both carrying suitcases.

Their children…

_('their children'_ meaning the children that they were in charge of. These two were obviously not the actual parents (too young, wrong features). Just a driver and a nanny for the family…although they _were_ romantically involved)

…had already run ahead of them, down the stairs and out into the lawn, saying their quick goodbyes to friends as they hurried towards freedom.

Once they had passed, Jim entered the school building.

It was vacant and dim, as almost everyone (staff and students) was outside.

_Inside,_ nothing much had changed and Jim could still travel the school easily, wandering around because he was bored (and for the nostalgia).

Yes, _of course_, Jim knew the boarding school.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, he'd locked a fellow student in a closet here.

Now, Jim just had to occupy himself until nighttime, when the school would finally close down and_ Jim_ would finally be able to pick up his children _('his children'_ meaning the children that he was going to kidnap).

After about fifteen minutes of 'casing' (as he was calling it now, since that was more professional than 'wandering around') the school, Jim heard footsteps approaching as well as something rolling on squeaky wheels.

Probably a janitor, pushing some kind of cart with either trash bins or cleaning supplies.

Quickly, Jim pulled a paper off one of the bulletin boards that adorned the wall outside of a locked and dark classroom.

It was a flyer for a Girl Guide summercamp.

Jim crumpled it up and threw it onto the tile floor.

He waited until the janitor turned the corner and came into view to resume walking down the corridor.

"Thank god!" Jim exclaimed, hurrying over to him, "I've been looking all over, this school is a bloody maze!"

The old janitor, who was pushing a cart of trash, looked up at Jim.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

"…I need to use the little boy's room." Jim winced.

"Um…it's just down the hall, to your right…" The janitor stated, gesturing behind him.

"Thanks." Jim smiled, already beginning to rush towards the restroom.

The Janitor shrugged, nodded and then bent over to retrieve the crumpled paper he noticed lying there on the floor. As he bent, Jim was able to retrieve the ring of keys he noticed hanging from the Janitor's belt-loop.

The Janitor resumed his normal stature, placing the paper with the rest of the trash and then continued down the hallway in his original direction as Jim continued in the opposite.

(And when he did pass the bathroom (down the hall and to his right), Jim stopped quickly, because actually _had_ needed to go.)

* * *

><p><em>It's cheese.<em>

_It's cheese._

_It's cheese that makes the mice go round._

* * *

><p>Once again, despite the water in the vase, the flowers were dead.<p>

It had been over a week since Jim had left the azaleas for Molly and since that verified that he was still alive (and still_ 'interested' _in her, too, apparently—or at least still interested in_ playing _with her) she knew that the reason for his disappearance from her life was that _something_ was about to happen with Sherlock.

Something _big._

And probably _bad,_ too.

Jim had said, multiple times, that he was planning on killing Sherlock Holmes and so now, Molly guessed, he was finally going to do it…

…or _die trying. _

(…or _both, _maybe…)

Even though Molly had no way of stopping Jim she knew she had to do _something._

Not something _big,_ (obviously, because Molly didn't _do '_big somethings')…just something _small._

Something small…

…but_ good_, too.

Something small and good that would help Sherlock get a fair chance against Jim.

Molly knew Sherlock was genius.

He didn't need 'help' (especially from people like _her), _he was perfectly capable of playing Jim's 'game' (and maybe even _beating_ Jim, too…_probably_…) but The Game was like a _puzzle_ and it wasn't _fair_ if only Jim had all the pieces.

All Sherlock needed was a _fair chance_ and Molly knew he could (would) _win._

_Now what that meant for Jim…_

Yes, it made Molly sad…but it would have made her feel _much worse_ if Sherlock died and she hadn't helped him.

If she'd done _nothing._

And Molly knew she couldn't live with that.

Jim had chosen to become a criminal.

He knew the _risks_ of doing what he chose to do—_and _of choosing Sherlock to be his enemy.

…but _Sherlock_…

Sherlock _hadn't_ chosen Jim.

And so _Molly_ was choosing to help him.

(Hopefully, Sherlock would choose to accept her help.)

Molly wrapped her fingers around the wilting flower stems, lifting the flowers out of the vase and crossing the kitchen to drop them into the trash bin.

She dumped the water from the vase down the sink drain, and then returned vase to the cupboard.

Now, Molly's flat was quiet, colorless and empty.

(Much like her life…. much like _herself.) _

She was _lonely_, she couldn't _(wouldn't) _deny that, and she was _hungry._

There were things that she wanted now, _good things_ like before…but also _bad things,_ too.

She wanted Sherlock to live, she wanted to help him and this was _good_…but she also wanted _Jim_ to live. _She wanted Jim_—and_ that _was _bad._

It was like _before,_ but also _not_ like before.

Before she had been alone and bored, waiting for something (_someone)_ she didn't believe would actually come.

…_but now…_

Now she was just _waiting._

Waiting for something that she_ knew_ would happen very soon.

And so it wasn't easy for Molly to go through the motions doing her job as if she had no idea that Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty were about to have some sort of 'final battle' to determine, _once and for all_, who would win their 'game'.

But she did anyway.

Time moved very slow now, each breath—each _heartbeat_—was like the tick of a clock (or a _bomb)_, counting down until s_omething_ happened.

And when Molly entered the morgue one afternoon the cold, gray room was silent and still…like the air just before a predator pounced unexpectedly from behind on its prey.

But Molly knew this 'air' all too well, these past two years it'd become quite familiar to her.

She wasn't _stupid._

It had been over a week since Jim had left the azaleas for Molly—

—and _Jim_ wasn't stupid, either.

He knew how long it took for flowers to die.

Molly flipped on the light to her workroom, and saw what she had expected to see (sooner or later, at least); the unexpected.

There on the metal table sat a new vase, small and slim, holding a single red rose.

(And she didn't need the internet to look up what _that_ meant.)

This flower had a note with it, too, just like before.

_Come down and see me some time._

—_J_

It wasn't like Jim's normal messages (he never signed with just a 'J') and it didn't even tell her _where_ or _when _she should come 'see' him.

But the flower was fresh (it hadn't been there earlier that day), and the note was written on the back of a business card that Molly had only ever seen tacked up to the bulletin board of a _particular _coffee shop (and it even had the hole where the thumbtack had been).

Molly felt her phone vibrate in her pocket.

_How did he know, how did he always know…?_

Molly looked up into the corner of the room and she saw the security camera looking back.

She reached into her pocket and checked the text that had come from Jim.

_btw its not a trap….just a little joke. _

**####**

_You were gone for weeks! I was really worried!_

**####**

_lol_

**####**

_Its not funny…_

_What happened? Whats going on? _

**####**

_If you have to explain a joke, there is no joke._

…_but come find me and we'll talk. _

Molly sighed, slipping her phone back into her labcoat pocket.

Once again, Jim Moriarty had called and she was going to come running.

* * *

><p><em>It's mice.<em>

_It's mice_

_It's mice that make the cats go round._

* * *

><p>Jim found the normally shared, but now all-but empty bedroom the son of the diplomat slept in.<p>

He paced around the room, examining the remaining items (which all probably belonged to Max—except for those accidently left behind).

He picked up the book Max had been reading from the bed, glancing at its front and then back, before opening it and flipping through.

It was an American comic book.

_Batman._

Probably mailed to Max from his father working in the United States.

Max's bookshelf was full of books, Jim could see that he read a lot since watching television was against the rules at the boarding school—a rule which Max obviously resented, too, as he owned many books that had been made into popular movies recently ( a collection of Batman comics, the Harry Potter series, even James Bond novels, and the Bourne Trilogy) as well as some of the more famous Agatha Christie mysteries (which were worn, but not recently touched—used, probably given to Max by his mother).

Poor kid didn't have any dirty magazines, though.

And so Jim had to make due reading the comic Max had left on his bed, which flopped down on.

It kind of reminded him of _Sherlock—_

—but, then again, e_verything_ reminded Jim of Sherlock.

It also reminded him of Molly, though, and not everything did _that._

_Maybe he was just getting sentimental…_

He thought he might leave her another flower soon, once he was finished babysitting, since the ones he'd brought her before must have wilted by now.

* * *

><p><em>It's cats.<em>

_It's cats._

_It's cats that make the dogs go round._

* * *

><p>As soon as Detective Inspector Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan had come up the stairs and through the door into his flat, Sherlock had <em>known.<em>

Known that _this _case would be '_the one'_—even if_ they _hadn't.

It had been two months since Sherlock's 'friendly chat' with Jim Moriarty, who had told him that his _'fall' _would be starting _'very soon'. _

Ever since, Sherlock had been waiting patiently (distracting himself with other cases) for the 'consulting criminal' to make his next move.

He'd seen the little clues in the newspapers, someone named Richard Brook _(Reichenbach)_ 'just happened' to be accusing him of being a fraud in an article that 'just happened' to be written by Kitty Riley.

The graffiti _('IOU')_ that 'just happened' to painted on nearby walls wherever he went.

Mycroft had told Sherlock (from when he was just a child to this very day) that there was _no such thing as coincidence._

And so Sherlock _knew._

The high-profile crime, size of the footprints he found at the crime scene, the envelope with the book of fairytales…

…all that just _proved_ it.

So now all Sherlock had to do was pretend that he had _no idea_ and go through the motions of solving the case as if it was any normal case.

He knew that if he solved it too quickly, _too easily_, then it would be _suspicious_—which was _exactly_ what Moriarty wanted; more_ doubt_ cast upon the name Sherlock Holmes.

And Sherlock was_ not_ going to do what Moriarty wanted him to do.

No.

…He was going to _pretend _to.

* * *

><p><em>It's dogs.<em>

_It's dogs._

_It's dogs that make the boys go round._

* * *

><p>"Problem?" Lestrade had asked.<p>

And Sally had looked up from the files and photographs on the long table to see him standing there with a confused look on his face, pretending as if he actually had _no idea_ exactly what her _'problem'_ was.

Sherlock Holmes.

_He _was the problem.

And it was just too_ suspicious_ how quickly he had located the missing children.

Sally had seen the articles (not that she'd actually _read_ them—she'd _never_ read _tabloids._ It was simply beneath her. _definitely_) claiming to explain how Sherlock had faked solving all those cases…_and_ being genius.

_Yes,_ that story _was_ unbelievable…

…just as unbelievable as someone being able to 'solve' crimes the way Sherlock did.

Sherlock _had_ to have been faking it, somehow and if not all of it, well, then at least some of it.

There was _no way_ every deduction he had ever made could have been _real._

And Moriarty making absolutely no defense for himself against the crimes he'd been accused of, and_ still_ getting acquitted…that was also incredibly _suspicious. _

It was more likely than not that Sherlock had paid him to do that—had paid him to do the crimes back in 2010,_ too,_ which were all ever-so nicely delivered directly to Sherlock…even though nobody had even heard of Sherlock Holmes yet (since John's blog hadn't the large following it did now and Sherlock's name wasn't in the newspapers).

So _this_ was what Sally and Anderson had explained to Lestrade in his office and then, again, to the superintendent in_ his_ office.

And then Sally had waited at the bottom of the stairs while Lestrade tried to be reasonable with Sherlock, _politely offering _take him into custody wi_thout _all the fanfare of handcuffs and flashing lights.

She had warned Lestrade that it would be futile (just like she had warned John to stay away Sherlock) but Lestrade had insisted that it would be better to keep things quiet (—not just for Sherlock's sake, but for Scotland Yards, as well…and their own).

But even Sally knew that Sherlock Holmes _never _gave up the fight.

And she was_ not_ going to let Sherlock win _this time._

If Sherlock _was_ indeed a criminal, then he would be going to jail and _she _was going to be the one who (happily) put him there.

Now, it was _time._

Sally couldn't help but smile as she pushed past the flies unlucky enough to be caught in Sherlock's web (John, Mrs. Hudson), angrily buzzing at her and Lestrade, who went upstairs to make their arrest.

Everyone else was waiting patiently outside of 221b Baker Street, standing around or leaning against their police cars, their collective satisfaction of being_ right_ glowing in the dark.

(_Yes!_ They were _right!_ Sherlock Holmes was_ not_ a genius! Sherlock Holmes was a _fake!_ Sherlock Holmes was a criminal! He was _wrong_ and they were _right!_ They were _not stupid…)_

Finally, Sherlock was led out of his flat, his hands cuffed together as the hands of the watching police officers applauded.

This was a large and loud event, arresting the famous world's only consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes.

Worthy of media attention.

And so _Sherlock_ couldn't help but smile, either, as he was shoved against the police car to be pat down.

He was playing right into Moriarty's hand…

…and the police were playing right into _his._

* * *

><p><em>It's boys.<em>

_It's boys._

_It's boys that make the girls go round._

* * *

><p>Molly had been pulling on her coat, already hurrying on her way out the door when Sherlock (and John, who was always with him) stopped and turned her around, with just two bags of crisps and a smile that <em>almost <em>looked genuine (even though she knew it really wasn't—she knew what Sherlock's _rea_l smiles looked like and they were always directed at John).

It was too easy.

Too easy to keep Molly at his 'beck and call' that Sherlock actually felt a bit _sorry_ about it (—but only because _John _felt sorry for poor, naïve little Molly who Sherlock so _rudely_ 'used' and gave him that 'disappointed' look).

Molly Hooper came running whenever Jim Moriarty called…and whenever Sherlock Holmes called, as well.

And as if she was his personal assistant, Molly fetched all the items Sherlock had requested (books, equipment) and did the small, less important tests that he trusted her not to mess up for him.

He didn't thank her.

No, Sherlock hadn't even _noticed _her as she gave him an answer that he needed to solve his current case (some kind of kidnapping, he hadn't bothered to tell her the details), a piece of the puzzle that he needed to put together.

He had called her 'John'.

John had gone into the other room to read the medical encyclopedia, searching for more information necessary to their case.

Sherlock knew this.

And Molly knew that Sherlock knew this.

(She knew because she knew Sherlock _actually cared_ about John and so wouldn't look as sad as he did in front of him as he did in front of someone he _didn't_ care about (_her_).)

And since Sherlock looked so sad, Molly forgave (what was nothing but) the _deliberate cruelty_ (of, once again, ignoring and not appreciating her), forgave _him._

She sighed and told Sherlock that she'd give him whatever he _needed_—even though she knew he didn't_ want_ anything.

But she _also _told him that he should thank her.

It wasn't that she even wanted or actually expected him to thank her (or mean it if he did)…it was because Sherlock believed that Molly helped him (and put up with him) out of _love. _

And he was _wrong._

(Once upon a time, he would have been _right. _ But not anymore, _not anymore…) _

It was out of _guilt._

The guilt of sleeping with Sherlock's _worst enemy_, a criminal mastermind and mass murderer…

…and using a trip to the vending machine as an excuse to go running back to him again.

Molly ducked out of the lab, _practically running_ down the halls of the hospital as soon as she was a safe enough distance from Sherlock (and John, who was always with him).

Sure, she must have looked _strange,_ rushing out of St. Bart's and down the street towards the coffee shop but Molly just didn't care what the people that stopped to stare at her thought about her, anymore (hey, at least they were noticing her now).

The only people whose opinions (_judgments_) she cared about now were those she bothered to lie to (Sherlock, Lestrade, family members)…

…and Jim Moriarty.

It had been weeks since she'd seen him and so she couldn't pass up the chance to see him now.

After all, it could be the very last time she did.

(_Maybe,_ Molly hoped as she hurried, _just maybe—if Jim was in a good enough mood—she could distract from killing Sherlock…and himself_.)

But when Molly finally arrived at the coffee shop Jim wasn't there.

Their usual table was vacant and when Molly scanned the rest of the room she couldn't find him.

Just as she was about to turn and leave (and go running back to Sherlock who she'd left unsupervised in her lab—_breaking the rules)_ the barista shouted past those already in line over to her.

" Excuse me, ma'am?" she called.

Molly looked up and over to the woman behind the counter, who motioned her over with a wave.

"Yes?" Molly asked, wondering if Jim had left some kind of message for her with the barista or something.

"You're not in here looking for your boyfriend, are you?" the barista inquired, in something resembling a whisper, leaning towards her.

"I…well…" Molly stammered, not knowing whether to still call Jim her 'boyfriend' and if the barista even meant Jim by 'boyfriend'.

"He was in here earlier." She stated, "Waited for about fifteen minutes then hurried out."

"…oh…" Molly said, unsure of what else she could say to this.

She'd missed her chance.

_Her last chance._

"Yeah, well I already told you he was seeing other women on the side." The barista reminded, "So, in my opinion, it's good riddance. You can do better than him, the damn cheater."

_In her opinion? _

But Molly didn't_ care_ about _her opinion._

"Um…okay…" Molly replied.

"Now, here." The barista said, reaching under the counter to pull out one of the pastries for sale and then handing it over to her, "This'll help. Chocolate's better than any man. On the house."

She smiled and so Molly smiled back, politely.

"Thanks." Molly accepted, taking the chocolate donut even though she wasn't hungry.

She decided that it would be a good excuse if Sherlock asked her why she took so long to get crisps from the vending machine.

She'd tell him that the machine took her money and so she went down to her favorite coffee shop to buy a snack there (not to see Jim Moriarty or anything. _Definitely not). _

But when Molly returned to the lab, Sherlock was gone.

Just like Jim.

* * *

><p><em>It's girls.<em>

_It's girls._

_It's girls that make the love go round._

* * *

><p>"Why don't you just go down and play with them if you want to so bad?"<p>

"Cause you said it was stupid."

"It is stupid."

"But why's it stupid?"

Max sighed, shutting his book looking up at Claudette who had turned from the window to face him.

Her brother was sitting up in his bed, the only bed that still wearing its clothes as all the other boys had packed up their covers, along with the rest of their stuff, to leave for the summer.

Max was the only boy left.

Claudette was the only girl.

The girls' room was down the hall from the boys', he knew she'd be scared that night, sleeping in her dark room alone.

She'd probably sneak out and try to sleep in his bed with him.

And since the other boys weren't around to make fun of him, he'd probably let her too.

Although Max didn't want to admit it, he really _did_ love his younger sister—even though she _wa_s an annoying little seven-year-old.

"Why's it stupid, Max?" Claudette repeated, wide-eyed.

"I already told you, Claudette." Max said, "It's stupid because they're all leaving and _we_ have to_ stay_. They're all playing and having fun because it's summer. They get to go home. We d_on't_. We're not like them…so why should we play with them?"

"Because they're fun to play with?" Claudette guessed.

Max rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, whatever."

"_And,"_ Claudette added, the mischief in her grin masked by her cuteness, "because if you don't let me play with _them_, then _you'll_ have to play with me."

"I never stopped _you_ from playing with them." Max countered, "I just said it was stupid and_ I_ wouldn't do it. You can do what you want. You always say I'm not the boss of you, anyway."

"But since our parents are gone, you kinda _are."_ Claudette reasoned, "Since you're the oldest."

"Well, then." Max agreed, "As the oldest and the boss of you, I'm giving you permission to go outside and play with the other kids."

"But—"

"It's what you wanted, isn't it?"

Claudette stared down at her shoes, shaking her head.

"No…" she murmured, "What I _really_ wanted was to play with _you."_

Max sighed again and rolled his eyes again.

"For god's sake, Claudette!" He declared, "I'm twelve years old! I _don't_ 'play'."

Claudette giggled.

"Yes you _do."_ She reminded, "I saw you pretending to be James Bond in front of mom's mirror at home!"

"That was a long time ago." Max contested, folding arms but blushing, _"Before the divorce…"_

The word 'divorce' was a _sensitive_ one for the siblings and so sadness and silence took the room.

But silence was Max _wanted._

He knew that despite not even understanding the situation between their parents, Claudette still blamed herself for their separation.

She went back over to the window, staring outside at the students playing below, waiting for their parents to come and take them home.

Claudette and Max's parents weren't coming.

And the boarding school was their home now.

Downstairs and outside, the boys and girls were playing _together,_ no longer divided by the pathway.

Somehow, one of the boys' balls had rolled into the girls' side of the green grass and instead of taking it back and taking it back to their side, the boys were now _sharing _the ball with the girls.

Claudette had never seen anything like this before.

She thought boys and girls were _supposed _to stay away from eachother. She thought those were _the rules._

She wasn't even allowed to be in her brother, or any boy's, room at the school. The only reason she was able to was because all the staff was outside so they didn't know.

Now Claudette wondered why the boys and girls could get along, but not her father and mother.

Max could see her reflection in the window.

_Such a sad, sad face._

Max set down his book and got up from the bed, tip-toeing over to his sister and then surprising her by scooping her up into a big hug.

He couldn't lift her up all the way (she was getting big, now, and he wasn't yet as big as his father) but he knew she smiled and laughed when their father used to play with her, pretending she was a bird.

Claudette giggle and when Max set her back down in front of him, he could see her smiling.

"Play with me, Max?" she asked, as sweetly as she could (she knew her powers and how to use them—especially against her big brother), "_Pretty, pretty, please..." _

"Oh, _alright."_ Max agreed, shrugging.

"Yes!" Claudette squealed, jumping up and hugging him tightly, "I love you, Max, I love you!"

"Love you, too, Claudette." Max returned, "Now let go of me, you're crushing my ribcage."

"…Sorry." Claudette apologized, dropping her arms back to her sides but her smile only faded for a second before reappearing on her face, she then grabbed Max's hand, "Now, come on, let's go play!"

Claudette led Max out of the room.

And then, _Jim Moriarty_ led Max out of the room.

Hours later, a monster emerged from the shadows to steal the siblings away.

But before he was forced out of his bed at gunpoint, Max had been able to write a message in the invisible ink he and his sister had mixed up from supplies they'd stolen from the kitchen while playing spy earlier that day.

Max had seen the silhouette and the gun in the window and _froze._

He knew what he was _supposed _to do.

(Leave a clue behind.)

But he was too afraid.

He knew this was his chance to finally live out what he had only ever read about, to finally have some excitement in his young life.

But he was too afraid.

And then the man was in the room.

He leaned against the doorframe, his face obscured by the darkness.

"_Come on,_ Max," he said, "_I know_ you know what to do…_so just do it."_

Max sat up in bed, still immobile—except for his shivers.

The intruder yawned, patting his mouth with the gun in his hand.

"Let's not take all night, now." He added, "We've got places to be, better things to do."

"Who—who _are_ you?" Max finally stammered.

The intruder laughed, Max could see him throw his head back like a howling wolf.

"The name's Moriarty, kid." He stated, "You can paint it on the walls, if you'd like."

Max finally was able to make his shaking arm reach for the linseed oil.

He dipped his finger into it, spilling some in the process and started to draw on the blue-painted wall beside him.

But before he could complete his message, the intruder(—_Moriarty_—that was he said his name was, right? _But it was probably a pseudonym, though...) _snatched him by the wrist and pulled him out of bed, placing the gun right against the black of his head.

"Told you not to take to long." Moriarty grumbled.

Max felt himself being pushed by the barrel of the gun towards the door.

Deliberately they stepped in the mixture Max had accidently spilled onto the wood floors and Max knew there would be footprints left behind—he just didn't know _why_ Moriarty wanted this.

In the hall, Max saw his sister waiting for him, also shaking in fear. Her wide eyes looked up at him when she heard them come through the door.

Max decided that had to be brave for her.

"It'll be alright." he told her.

Moriarty laughed again.

"_Course _it will." He agreed, and grabbed Claudette by the elbow.

A taxi picked the three of them up outside the boarding school.

It drove for a long time, taking them to the outskirts of the city and dropping them off outside of some kind of factory.

During the car ride, Max had wanted to hold his little sister's hand, but Moriarty had sat between them, separating them.

Max was finally able to comfort the crying Claudette when they were left alone on the floor of the dark, cold and very wide room.

"Don't worry." He whispered, "Someone'll find us…I left a trail."

"No one'll find us." Claudette sobbed, "We haven't got anyone to _look._ Our parents don't want us…"

"Yes they do!" Max insisted, wrapping his arms around her, "They love us. You remember what they said, right? Just because they were getting divorced from eachother…didn't mean they were getting divorced from us. And it's not our fault."

"I know that isn't true, though…" Claudette whimpered, "Even I know when the grown-ups are lying…"

"They weren't—"

"Yes they _were _and you know it, Max. I know when you're lying, too_._ They wouldn't have left us alone in that school if they loved us!"

"Shhh, Claudette! Don't shout! He'll hear us!"

And Max was right.

He and Claudia heard footsteps approaching, and someone whistling.

Moriarty, still only a faceless shadow in a dark room, stood before them again, this time holding a bag instead of a gun.

He tossed the bag in their direction and it slid across the floor towards them, its contents scattering.

"Brought you kids some candy." Moriarty grinned, teeth glinting, "I'm going to fatten the two of you up until you're ready to bake."

Max covered Claudette's mouth before she could gasp or scream (he wasn't sure which she would do, but he'd seen it start to open).

Then they just sat there, unmoving, and stared at their kidnapper.

"What are you waiting for?" Moriarty groaned, "Eat up! It's not like it's _poisoned…"_

Still, the children didn't move.

Sighing, Moriarty sat down cross legged across from them.

Max began to be able to make out his face, his eyes finally adjusting to the darkness.

….he looked…_familiar…_

Eyeing the children as they eyed him, Moriarty reached down and picked up a piece of candy from the floor, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth.

"It's _safe, _see?" he smiled, chewing while he spoke (how rude!—but then again, kidnappers were _supposed _to be rude) "Now you kids must be hungry, I know I'm _starving." _

Moriarty lifted another piece of candy, this time offering it Claudette who nestled further into Max's embrace, trying to hide from him.

He extended his hand and the candy closer to her and Max glared at him.

Suddenly, Claudette reached out and snatched the piece from Moriarty's grasp, only half unwrapping it before shoving it into her mouth and returning to the safety of her older brother by making herself _very small._

"Why are you doing this?" Max demanded, just as suddenly.

"Cause it's fun." Moriarty shrugged, "Do I even need any other reason than that?"

"Yes." Max asserted, "…usually it's money. People kidnap people to get the ransom money. You're trying to get money from our dad, aren't you?"

"Nope." Moriarty shook his head, "Try again."

"Someone paid you." Max tried again, still glaring.

"That-a-boy, Max!" Moriarty exclaimed, "Right on the money!"

"Who's paying you…?" Max questioned.

"A man named Sherlock Holmes." Moriarty answered, "Ever heard of him?"

"…I think so…" Max considered, trying to remember (but being distracted by the current stressful situation), "…he's that detective that's been in the papers lately?"

"Mmhm." Moriarty nodded, "The world's only consulting detective."

"Why would he want to _kidnap_ us?" Max inquired, "I thought he was with the police, not a criminal."

"He's one of the good guys…" Claudette added in a mumble.

"He's a _liar."_ Moriarty corrected, "And a _fake." _

"What?" Max replied, "What do you mean a 'fake'?"

"Sherlock Holmes's isn't_ really_ a detective." Moriarty informed, leaning in close towards the children and speaking in a whisper, "He's actually a spy. An evil criminal mastermind—"

"_You're_ the liar." Max accused, "'spies', 'criminal masterminds', those aren't real! They're just in stories and movies!"

"Oh, they _are_ real, Max, _very_ real." Moriarty grinned, "Just like the _monsters _under your beds and the _big, bad wolf."_

Claudette shuddered and Max held her closer.

This 'Moriarty' man was creepy…_strange…_

Max didn't know what to make of him, which of his words to believe.

"Still…" he countered, "if Sherlock Holmes really is an evil spy, he'd still have to have a reason for having us kidnapped."

"He does." Moriarty affirmed. He stood, looming over the children, and started pacing circles around them, "You see, kids, there is a _war _going on in this world. One great big war that never stops. When countries fight each other, that's the war. When people kill each other, that's the war…and when parents don't love eachother anymore and get divorced, that, kids, is the war. _Everything is war_…and do you know _why _that is? _Max? Claudette?" _

"Why?" Claudette asked.

Max was old enough to know better than to take the bait.

"Because," Jim explained, "The world is at war with _itself. _Good and evil, chaos an order. Opposites in a never-ending battle to destroy eachother…but they don't realize that without eachother, they can't _survive_ and when _one _dies, so must the other. It's all about balancing the equation. Opposites, enemies…all they really are is just two sides of the same coin and—"

"_You're _the one who stole my comic book!" Max interrupted, "I was wondering where it went!"

Moriarty stopped short, almost tripping over a piece of candy.

"…Well, what can I say?" he admitted, shrugging, "I'm a sucker for a good love story."

"'Love story'?" Max repeated, taken aback, "Ew! No! Batman is _not_ a 'love story'. It's _action _and _crime_ and _mystery _and-!"

"—and _war?"_ Moriarty guessed, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes." Max confirmed, nodding, "and _war." _

Moriarty chuckled, shaking his head at the floor.

"Nobody _gets it_…nobody ever gets it…" he sighed, "it's not a war story, it's a love story…"

Max and Claudette stared up at him, as confused as they were scared.

They didn't get it.

Of course they didn't get it.

But if Moriarty had to explain the joke to them, then it wasn't a joke anymore.

* * *

><p><em>It's love.<em>

_It's love._

_It's love that makes the world go round._

* * *

><p>Jim was gone.<p>

_Yes. _

But that didn't Molly was going to just do _nothing._

Back down in the cold, gray basement morgue, Molly decided to write her own note.

In full view of the PICA security camera that watched the room, Molly formed her message out of red petals torn from the rose _('he loves me, he loves me not')_ on top of the metal table.

_Get Jim_

As soon as she was sure the camera had seen it, she blew the petals, shaped like teardrops (shaped like blooddrops) away like birthday candles and made her wish.

* * *

><p><em>It's cheese that makes the world go round.<em>

* * *

><p><strong>...well that got a bit cheesy, didn't it?<br>**

**I've always loved cheese.  
><strong>

**I was a Girl Scout when I was younger too. **

**That's where I learned the song.  
><strong>

**If they don't sing it over in the UK, I'm sorry...but I just couldn't help it lol.  
><strong>

**I thought it fit.  
><strong>

**And now there's about 2 chapters to go.  
><strong>

**I'm gonna try to do 3 more, though, to make it an even 40.  
><strong>

**Wish me luck.  
><strong>

**In reviews, of course :)  
><strong>


	38. Friends and Enemies

**Low review count last chapter...**

**...so I added some Jim and Molly actually together, this chapter.  
><strong>

**Hopefully that'll work.  
><strong>

**If not this is gonna be one lonely summer lol...****  
><strong>

* * *

><p>This time there was no <em>theatrics. <em>

Instead of a wide, vacant top floor of a skyscraper where more money was made in one minute by a powerful few than in the entire lifetimes of normal people meant to intimidate by all it symbolized, Molly was taken to a small office of a small college in the city that was out for the summer.

And instead of being given tea and threats, she had a conversation.

_Two_ conversations, actually.

"A man was shot here." Molly said, as they approached the building, "Two years ago. I did his autopsy. He was shot and killed…but he was already dying of a brain aneurism. He only had days left to live…"

"I don't know anything about that, ma'am." Moran replied, not turning around to look at her.

He was walking ahead of Molly, leading her into the school as she scurried behind him, staring around and making nervous small-talk.

She'd been silent the taxi ride over, but she'd been_ right_ and so she wanted to say_ something_ (but politely ease into it).

"They never caught the shooter," Molly continued, "Even though Sherlock Holmes was working that case. The man who died was a serial killer. He poisoned four known victims, I did some of those autopsies too…"

"Well, that's a shame." Moran sympathized, unconvincingly.

If Molly was trying to make some kind of a point (or an_ accusation_, even) then he would have preferred her to just state it outright…but until then he had to pretend to be polite because Molly, although annoying, at least wasn't _Jim _and so didn't deserve to be ignored or berated.

Up the stairs and down the hall, they were almost to his employer's office, though and so he wouldn't have to put up with this much longer.

He had work to do, after all.

"Speaking of Sherlock Holmes…" Molly changed the subject, finally getting to her point, "I knew it would be you—well, your boss—that would see the security feed. Your boss _or_ Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. He works for the government."

"I don't know anything about _that,_ either." Moran responded, "And neither does my employer, ma'am. We try not to get involved with Sherlock Holmes or anyone he associates with."

"_Really?"_ Molly inquired.

Moran didn't look back to see her face and so didn't know whether she was raising her eyebrow wryly or in genuine surprise.

She _sounded _sincere, though.

"Causes _trouble,_ Sherlock Holmes does." Moran commented, "It doesn't just follow him, _he seeks it out_. It's a _dangerous _thing to do, getting involved with Sherlock Holmes."

Molly wasn't stupid, of course.

She could tell that in Moran's sentence the name _'Sherlock Holmes'_ was meant to be synonymous with _'Jim Moriarty'. _

The nuances and double definitions of words were important things.

"_I know…" _Molly agreed, "…but it's hard _not to._ Get involved, I mean. Sherlock Holmes and—well, _people like him_…they're just—just so…_magnetic._ Sometimes you can't just stay away. Sometimes you're just drawn to them, like…like…"

"Like a moth to a flame?" Moran suggested, finally turning his head around look at Molly.

She was no longer walking behind him but simply standing there in the middle of the hallway, smiling embarrassedly as she tried to gather her thoughts and put them to coherent expression.

"Well, yes." Molly accepted, "Though I was _going _to say like planets in a solar system, orbiting around the sun."

"I see." Moran nodded, starting forwards again.

Molly hurried to keep up with him, he was walking faster now.

"_I know _you understand," She insisted, "I know you know…They're _different. _People like _them,_ like _Sherlock,_ like _Jim…"_

And_ Moran _wasn't stupid, either.

He could tell that in Molly's sentence, the names 'Sherlock' and Jim' were meant to be synonymous with his employer's.

And he could tell that in this 'story' (whatever fiction she had created in her mind, whatever _perceived_ parallels she had seen), _he_ was meant to be synonymous with _Molly._

Moran laughed, breaking from his normal straight face and monotone, and shook his head.

"I don't know what keeps you coming back to Jim," he told Molly, turning all the way around to face her, "love…loyalty…_loneliness_…Hell, maybe you're just bored or have a death wish. Whatever it is, it doesn't matter because Jim is _not_ his brother. And my employer is _not_ like him. He pays me. Very well. And that's why _I'm_ here. No other reason. And I don't care what yours is."

At Moran's words, Molly attempted to have no reaction but was unable to disguise the hurt and…_disappointment _(was it?) on her face.

And Moran did feel a little bad, at that.

(After all, he wasn't like Jim or James or Sherlock or Mycroft…he did have some semblance of a conscience left.)

And this poor girl… this _poor, sad, lost _girl was just trying to find someone to_ relate_ to, just wanted _(needed)_ a _friend…_

He sighed.

"What I mean is," Moran added, "is that it's not safe. You being around Jim. He could kill you. You should get out while you still have the chance."

But at this, Molly said nothing.

She just shook her head.

Moran sighed.

Neither spoke again until they finally reached the door to his employer's office and he held the door open to allow her to enter.

Inside the small office, Moran could see James, who was seated at his desk in the lamplight, look up when he heard the door.

"Miss Hooper." James greeted Molly, "Please come in."

"…hello…" she responded, tentatively stepping into the office.

Moran caught his employer's eye.

"You know what I have to do." he reminded.

"Yes, yes." James nodded, waving Moran away, "You may go."

Moran nodded also, and then ducked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

At the thud, Molly jumped a little.

She glanced around the room, which was _cozy_ compared to the empty floor she'd visited last time.

But it still didn't seem _real._

It was all dark browns, with a few reds or greens here and there.

Its bookshelves held the proper books and the desk had the proper papers (and coffee stains).

It was just _too_ normal.

The stereotypical professor's office without an ounce of _personality_ in the décor.

Molly realized then that she had never seen Jim's 'home' (if even_ had_ one).

She wondered about the people, those different _(strange) _people, that existed in worlds _(homes)_ of their own making within their own minds and were only just barely here in this one, only just playing the parts that the (boring—normal—_stupid)_ people expected them too.

"Sit down," James offered, gesturing to the chair across from him, "…and don't be afraid. I'm not going to threaten you, this time. I'm just going to talk to you. That's what you _wanted, _isn't it? After all, _you_ contacted _me."_

Molly sat, uncomfortably, holding her hands in her lap.

"_Actually,"_ she corrected, "I thought it would be the government who'd come to pick me up. I wanted to speak to Sherlock Holmes's brother."

"Mycroft Holmes?" James raised an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair, "I'm sure he has _better _things to do than talk to you—no offense, of course, miss—but the man _does _have a country to protect. I, on the other hand, _don't. _I'm just a teacher, a little person like _you…"_

"I know you're not." Molly stated.

James shook his head, laughing.

"I admit that list time I _did_ put on a bit of a _'show'_ for you, Miss Hooper, what with the tea and the empty floor in the skyscraper." He said, "I had convince you I was truly Jim's brother because I doubted he had told you about me—we don't tell people about each other, normally, you see…"

"Well, may be true but…" Molly considered, "…you still were able to get access to the video from the morgue and so I know how must have some kind of… _power."_

"I like to keep eye on my little brother," James shrugged, "and everyone he associates with. Constantly."

"…You watch us?" Molly asked, taken aback, "You were watching me?"

"Not _personally,_ of course." James chuckled, "I have people for that."

"Oh." Molly breathed a sigh of relief (…and then wondered just _who_ had been watching her, then—and _how much)._

"But when my employees saw the message, they assumed it was for me." James continued, "And although it _wasn't_…I still would like to hear what this is all about. If not Mr. Mycroft Holmes, then perhaps_ I_ can help you, Miss Hooper."

"I'm not the one who needs help." Molly replied, "Jim is. _You know_ he's going to…do _something._ Something terrible, probably, and he and Sherlock both'll end up dead."

"I don't know anything about that." James declared, "I'm not involved in any way with Sherlock Holmes or Jim Moriarty. If they both do die, then that's a shame but there's _nothing_ I can do about it."

"You're just going to do nothing, then?" Molly exclaimed, actually shocked, "Jim—he's your _brother!" _

"_Like I said,_ there's nothing I _can _do about it." James asserted, "I've been trying to stop my brother his entire life…and I've failed. Jim can't be controlled. He can't be _stopped."_

"So you've given up…" Molly murmured, sadly.

"Yes." James affirmed, "I _tried_ to teach him, I_ tried_ to helphim…but you can't make Jim do something he doesn't want to do. You just can't."

"Maybe you've just been trying the wrong thing," Molly countered, "Maybe you've just been doing that same thing over and over again, expecting a different result…"

"You think I'm crazy, Miss Hooper?" James scoffed, "You think you know my brother better than _I_ do?"

"I—" Molly began.

"You're wrong." James interrupted, "You may believe that you're _special_ to Jim, just because you've known him a couple years and he hasn't killed you…you think he_ cares_ about you…He _doesn't._ Jim doesn't care about anyone but himself—and Sherlock Holmes, of course, which is only his arrogance appreciating someone he believes is his reflection—And I assure you, Miss Hooper, that he doesn't care about _you._ So you shouldn't waste your affections on _him_, either…or your _life."_

"I…" Molly began again, quietly, hopelessly, "…I can't help it. I just _do."_

And James did feel a little bad, at that.

This poor girl… this _poor, sad, lost_ girl who fell for the only man who paid attention to her (and the most dangerous criminal mind the world had ever seen).

All she'd wanted _(needed)_ was a friend.

He sighed.

"Well, it does take the heart of an angel to love a monster," he consoled, reaching over to pat Molly on the shoulder, "You're a very caring person…"

"'Caring'?" Molly repeated, "You mean _stupid." _

"Same thing." James smiled.

And Molly nodded.

The nuances and double definitions of words were important things.

"You said you 'keep an eye' on Jim…" she recalled, "…Do you know where he is? I need to see him, I just want to talk to him…_please…"_

"I'm afraid I can't tell you his location at the moment," James started, already seeing Molly's mouth open to protest, "but if you go back to the hospital and wait there, I think I can arrange a meeting between you and him."

"You can do that?" Molly questioned, skeptically "You'd really do that?"

"If I wasn't going to I wouldn't lie to you about it." James answered, "…but I can't _guarantee_ to you that Jim will actually come to this meeting. I told you, I can't make my brother do anything he doesn't want to. And I don't know if he'll want to, considering what he knows you're going to say."

"He'll want to." Molly said, hoping she was right and hoping she was as sure as she sounded (and that she sounded sure).

* * *

><p>As the sun set, Moran steered the taxi through the streets of London until he saw Jim standing by the side of the road, pointing his thumb in the direction he wanted to drive.<p>

And Moran did _not_ roll his eyes as he pulled up to the curb beside Jim, keeping the engine running as he stepped out of the car to allow Jim to drive.

"He'll know it's you." he warned, once Jim was in the driver's seat leaning his arm against the open window.

"No, he won't." Jim disagreed, "Who would _ever _suspect a lowly _cabbie?"_

" '_Fool me once'-"_ Moran began.

"And that's a _damn shame_, ain't it, Seb?" Jim interrupted, snickering, "…And by the way, you ever get that money you lost to him playing cards back?"

"No." Moran stated, expressionless as always (and hiding his anger and annoyance as _(almost) _always) but then added with a small (triumphant) smile, _"…but I got his cab."_

Jim grinned.

"I like how you play," he commented, "and I think that maybe, _just maybe_, in another life we could've been _friends…"_

Moran_ did_ roll his eyes at this.

"People like you don't have friends." Moran reminded, "…Now go get your enemy and get this over with."

"_Oh, alright…"_ Jim sighed, also rolling his eyes.

From inside his jacket, Jim pulled out a hat (and not just_ any_ hat_—Jefferson Hope's_ hat. _The previous owner of the cab's_ hat.) and adjusted it onto his head until it fit, checking his appearance in the rear-view mirror before finally putting his hands on the wheel.

Moran watched Jim drive away, the taxi quickly disappearing among the traffic of the city.

Once Jim was gone, it was time for Moran's next assignment.

Kill the hitmen who were following Sherlock Holmes.

(_Of course,_ they weren't shooting _each other._ After living together in such close proximity for such along time they had actually all become _friends,_ making alliances between their respective gangs and taking turns following Sherlock around. The Russain woman and the Albanian man had even hooked up a couple times-_don't tell the Moroccan, though, he has a crush on her.)_

* * *

><p>Still handcuffed together, Sherlock and John sat in the dark of Kitty Riley's living room, anxiously awaiting her arrival.<p>

Sherlock was tapping his feet impatiently, muttering something under his breath, just to kill time until Kitty arrived for their 'meeting'.

"Sherlock, could you _stop_ that? Someone'll _hear!" _

"Someone'll hear _you_ talking."

"_You_ were talking, too."

"I wasn't 'talking', John, I was _whispering._ There's a difference."

"Well, you're not whispering _now, _are you_?" _

"Neither are _you."_

"What _were _you talking about, anyway?"

"Not 'talking', _whispering_. I was _whispering." _

"What were you _'whispering'_ about, then?"

"I was just thinking—"

" '_Thinking'?_ But I thought you were _'whispering'!"_

"Well, _John, _I can do _both_ at the _same time_—a fact which _you'd_ realize had you the same ability."

"But since I _don't,_ you better tell me what you were 'thinking'."

"I was thinking that with everyone thinking that I falsified my accomplishments, that it's almost like I've ceased to exist—at least in my true incarnation—like I'm dead…"

"That's ridiculous, Sherlock! That doesn't even make any sense!"

"It would in Moriarty's mind."

"It shouldn't in yours, though. And if you know this is what Moriarty wants you to think…then you know you shouldn't be thinking it."

"Well we can't help what we think, John, now can we?"

"So you actually think—"

"_No._ I mean _yes,_ but _no._ I know it's not _logical_ but I still _think…_I still _feel—" _

"You _feel? _'Feel' as in like, you know, _actual emotions?"_

"I do have those, John..."

"Ah, so you're not a robot after all. Good to know."

"…but they rarely, if ever, affect me. And when they do…they slow the circuits in my mind."

" 'Circuits', huh?...No, well, I shouldn't be joking about this, anyway. It's wrong of me—"

"Joke if you want, John. I won't laugh, but I won't cry either. I doesn't affect me—"

"But you just said—"

"I said that I do have emotions. That doesn't mean just any little thing can hurt me. It doesn't mean _anything_ should be able to hurt me."

"It's normal to get hurt. That's—"

"—_That's what people do?_ Really, John, I think you can do better than that. _Normal_ people get hurt. _Ordinary_ people. _Stupid_ people…_not me." _

"Look, Sherlock, Moriarty's smart. He knows just what buttons to push. He _knows_ how you'll react to all of this…he's doing it on purpose! He's trying to mess with your mind, Sherlock, don't let him!"

"…I don't think he's trying to mess with my 'mind'…I think he's trying to mess with my _heart._ He said he'd 'burn the heart' out of me, didn't he? He knows my mind is too powerful for him to defeat and so he's targeting my _heart—" _

John sighed, shaking his head in the darkness.

As smart (genius) as Sherlock was, he refused to learn one simple _truth._

That the _heart _and the _mind _were the _same thing._

* * *

><p>It was already dark when Molly returned to St. Bartholomew's.<p>

James had offered to get another ride for her, but she'd elected to walk there just to kill time until Jim arrived for their 'meeting'.

But as soon as Molly stepped off the elevator into the lower level, she saw that the doors to the morgue were closed and locked, the entire floor blocked off.

From another, side door, a man emerged, practically running (despite his girth) towards Molly.

"What are you doing down here?" he demanded, worriedly.

"…I—I work here!" Molly stammered, jerking back away from him in shock, confusion and fear.

What did this man_ think _she was doing, what did he _know? _

"Oh…sorry." The man apologized, stopping and smiling embarrassedly, "I guess you didn't get the memo, then. Morgue closed tonight."

"…nobody told me, I'm sorry." Molly also apologized, also smiling embarrassedly.

Why did no one _ever _tell her _anything_ around here, why did everyone _always forget_ about her? Did she _really_ leave such a fleeting impression…?

"It's alright." the man shrugged.

"Why is it closed?" Molly inquired, "Did something _happen?" _

"Oh, no, nothing _bad_ happened or anything like _that."_ The man laughed, "I'm just doing a training exercise for my students down here."

"Your students?" Molly repeated.

"I'm a teacher," he stated, smiled, and then extended a hand for Molly to shake, "Mike Stanford."

Molly stared at him at him for a second before remembering what people do when someone extends a hand for you to shake.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Stanford." Molly shook his hand politely (though loosely, she never did have a 'strong handshake'), smiling politely, " I'm Molly Hooper."

"Nice to meet you too, Molly." Stanford returned, still shaking her hand, "And please, call me Mike."

"Okay…Mike…" Molly accepted, freeing herself from his grasp and inching away, backwards towards the elevator (she could see where this was going), "Well I've got to go now, since the morgue's closed and all and there's nothing for me to do here…"

"Oh. Right…" Stanford nodded, "See you around, then, Molly." and then called after her, "Coffee sometime?" as she backed back into the elevator behind her.

The doors closed (thankfully) before Molly had to think of a polite response (and refusal) to his invitation.

* * *

><p>After he'd jumped out the window, Jim hid in the alley behind Kitty's townhouse.<p>

Sherlock would expect him to _run_ and so he _stayed._

And once Sherlock and John had gone their separate ways, away from the neighborhood, Jim returned to Kitty's flat.

She was sitting at her dining room table, looking over the Richard Brooke 'evidence' while sipping some wine (a gift from her boss once he'd seen her Sherlock Holmes tell-all) from one of the nicer glasses (the kind Molly didn't even _own)_, obviously trying to calm down after the heated confrontation that had just taken place in her home.

_It was too easy to get people like her worked up…_

(And Kitty was so worked up that she hadn't noticed that her most important piece of evidence, her trust tape-recorder, had _disappeared.) _

"Honey, I'm home!" Jim called as he came through the front door.

Finally he was able to make the joke that was long overdue an audience (and some appreciation)—except Kitty didn't seem to find it funny.

"Rich, I was so worried!" Kitty cried, jumping up from her chair and rushing down the stairs to hold him (she was always so _grabby_—didn't seem to _care_ about _personal space)._

"It's fine, Kitty." Jim assured, patting her on the back (awkwardly) as she hugged him, "I'm fine."

"But you were gone such a long time…" Kitty reminded, finally pulling away from him.

"What do you mean a 'long time'?" Jim questioned, "I was only gone a few minutes. I was just hiding outside in the alley. Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson—they really scared me…"

"I mean _before,"_ Kitty explained, folding her arms, "You said you were just going out to get some coffee…but then you were gone almost _all day!_ It was eleven in the morning when you went out, it's nine o' clock at night _now_ and you've only just come back! _Where were you, Richard?"_

"um…getting coffee…?" Jim tried.

"Oh _really?"_ Kitty raised her eyebrow.

"I told you they didn't have any pre-ground—at least I think I did…" Jim pleaded, "And I went around from shop to shop, trying to find your favorite kind. I just kept looking and looking…but nobody had any! I'm sorry, Kitty, I really am! I just—"

Before Jim could finish his false apology, he was encompassed again by an embrace that violated his sense of personal space that was _very sensitive._

"Aww, Richie, that's so sweet!" Kitty swooned, "…You must have had the most difficult day, first that and now all this with Sherlock Holmes finding you…I'm so sorry, it must be so hard on you…"

"It _is,_ Kitty, _it really is…"_ Jim sobbed into her shoulders, "It's like I'm dead already_…" _

"Don't think that!" Kitty exclaimed, pushing Jim over to the small sofa and sitting him down.

"I don't 'think' it, I just _feel_ it…" Jim continued, sinking into his seat and sighing, "I feel like if nobody believes I'm real, then it's like I've ceased to exist—like I'm dead."

"Wait right there, I'll get you something to drink—" Kitty had started to say as she was halfway back up the stairs, before she stopped mid-sentence and in her tracks, turning around to stare at Jim confusedly, "…What do you mean nobody believes your real?"

Jim sighed.

"_You_ don't believe I'm real, _the public_ doesn't believe I'm real after your article…" he said, "…and even _Johnny,_ there, seemed like he was starting to doubt my reality, too, for a minute…"

"What?" Kitty asked, taken-aback.

"_God,_ you're so _stupid…"_ Jim groaned, "Everyone is just _so stupid!…_except me and Sherlock. We're the only ones…"

"You mean you're finally _admitting_ it, then?" Kitty inquired, a small smile growing on her face, "You're _finally_ telling me the _truth_ about your identity?"

"You _knew?"_ Jim asked, taken-aback.

"_Of course,_ I knew! I'm not _stupid!"_ Kitty laughed as she stepped down the stairs, "Besides Sherlock Holmes deduced me in the men's toilet—"

"He did _what_ to you in the toilet?!"

"At the courthouse! When Sherlock deduced everything about me _I knew_ he was for real. And there's _no way_ he could've faked everything else like that—just _made up_ all the crimes he solved—made up _you…_He'd have to be a _genius_ to do _that,_ and the what would be the _point?" _

Jim flew up from the couch.

He knew he couldn't kill Kitty (yet)—she still had to publish her article, after all.

But_ how_ had she known all along?

And, _more importantly_, how had he _not?_

(…maybe he had just been _distracted…) _

"So _all this time_, you were just _pretending…"_ Jim made sure, approaching her.

"I'm an actor." Kitty grinned, "Just like you, Richard Brook."

Jim chuckled at this.

"…_You know…"_ he began as he continued towards her, giving his voice that _edge_ that he knew made women _melt,_ "…it wasn't_ all_ acting…"

"Yes it was." Kitty scoffed, "It was all just a job…but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy my work, of course. I have to have my fun, my excitement where I can get it…"

Jim rolled his eyes.

He stepped backwards until fell back onto the sofa, sighing again and closing his eyes.

"So are you still gonna publish the story, or not?" Jim muttered, leaning his head back against the wall, "I've got to know, so I can know whether I have to _kill_ you."

"I'm going to publish it." Kitty declared, "I'm a storyteller, just like you, who cares if it's the truth or a lie?"

"I don't." Jim shrugged, "But doesn't hat doesn't compromise your 'journalistic integrity' or whatever people like you call it?"

"'People like _me'?"_ Kitty repeated, "I'm not like _them,_ the other writers, the_ normal_ people…I'm like _you!_ We're alike, the two of us! We're different from the rest…so we should be together!"

Jim snorted.

"You think you're like me?" he asked, still chuckling as he stood, shaking his head as he stalked towards her, "…you ever kill anyone before?"

"…no…" Kitty said.

"…_would_ you?" Jim tested, "And don't just _say _yes unless you _mean _it. _Really, really _mean it. And if you don't know, just say it."

"I would." Kitty affirmed, "I would kill someone…for _you. _I'd do _anything_ for you._" _

"Are you asking me for a _job proposition_, Miss Riley?" Jim questioned, smirking.

"I'll accept any kind of proposition you give me." Kitty answered, also smirking.

Jim laughed.

Laughed for a long time until Kitty joined him.

As soon as she did, he stopped, the smile falling from his face which turned blank…and _dark._

"Then kill yourself." Jim told her, "Publish your story and then go jump off a building or something."

"…Wh-what?" Kitty stammered, smile also falling from her face.

"Did I _stutter?_ You heard me. I said kill yourself." Jim snapped, then, muttering under his breath, _"…good lord, I can see why you 'repel' Sherlock…" _

"Is this some kind of a _test?"_ Kitty asked.

"If you wanna call it that, then sure, it's 'some kind of a test'." Jim accepted, "Kill yourself…and once your good and dead I'll give you an A plus. How about _that,_ Kitty-cat?"

"I—you—you _don't_ want me to work for you?" Kitty fumbled, still in shocked as Jim rolled his eyes at her, "…but we'd be so good together. I may not be any good now, but you—you could teach me! I could learn how to be _bad,_ how to be like _you._ I'd be _perfect…" _

"I've got people, _so many people_ that work for me, that _'would do anything'_ for me—or for _money…"_ Jim sighed, "…I don't need any more—I don't _want _any more. There are so many people, so many annoying little ticks that think if they latch onto me—or people _like_ me—that they could leech a bit of power for themselves. Finally be something. They're _wrong._ They _can't._ No matter _what_, all of them, they're all _nothing…"_

"All those people are the same!" Kitty insisted, "But I'm _different!" _

She was forward and persistent, Jim _had _to give her _that_—but_ not_ a job.

"NO YOUR NOT!" Jim shouted, straight into her face because he knew that scaring her was the only way to get her to back off (and because it was _fun _to see her jump away in fear, that shocked expression on her face (not as good as Molly's though, of course)), "You're stupid, just like everyone else. Everybody is just so stupid…stupid, and boring, and _too easy_ to corrupt—" Jim paused anger fading and voice softening,_ "—except_...except when they're _not._ Except when they're not…"

And as if on cue, Jim felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.

Getting it out, he saw the text he'd received was from his brother.

_Miss Hooper wants to meet with you._

_Poor thing still wants to save you._

After reading it, Jim returned his phone to his pocket, looking back up at Kitty who was still gaping at him in disbelief.

(Now not only had she been rejected by Sherlock Holmes, but by Jim Moriarty as well. Not a lucky girl, this Kitty Riley.)

"I've got to go now, darling." Jim told her, apologetically, "…but I'll be waiting for the Sherlock story, he's going to commit suicide, soon, by the way. You can add that to your piece—and while your at it, you might as well write your own obituary, too, since you're going to commit suicide, soon, as well—for me, because I asked you to." At this point he was already walking away, stopping in the doorway only to add, "See you around, Miss Riley—oh wait. _No I won't."_

And with that, Jim was _gone._

* * *

><p>Molly took the elevator up Robert's floor to see if he was in his (burrowed) office to chat with (to kill time until Jim arrived)…but he wasn't and that door, too, was locked.<p>

So Molly decided to just go up to the laboratory where she knew Jim would be able to find her once he found that the morgue was off-limits for the night.

That is, of course, if Jim even came at all.

He _didn't._

Molly waited for hours for Jim (again) and he never came (for her).

But Sherlock _did._

Just as she was finally giving up and going home, Sherlock stepped out of the shadows to tell her of all people (little nobody Molly Hooper) that he _needed_ her.

…And maybe that was just what _Molly_ needed.

It wasn't what she _wanted, _though.

"One more thing, Molly." Sherlock said, after he'd finished listing his instructions for her.

"Yes?" she asked.

"…You were gone a long time." Sherlock stated, "_Too_ long to just be getting some crisps."

And Molly's stomach dropped.

This was _it._

Sherlock had finally figured it all out.

She was _dead._

"I…I was just—I mean, I—" Molly fumbled, nervously.

Why even _try_ to make _excuses? _

_There was no point. _

"Nevermind." Sherlock interrupted, "That's not important, anyway_. I don't care."_

"…oh." Molly accepted cautiously, confused and still very nervous.

But the look of horror was still stuck on her face, rather than a look of relief.

And so Sherlock felt a little bad, at that.

This poor girl…this _poor, sad, lonely_ girl who'd only wanted _(needed)_ a _friend…_

…and who he'd _completely underestimated. _

He sighed.

"It's fine." He added, trying to sound less _cold _than he normally did, "It's all fine."

They were _John's _words, of course, and playing John (with the smiles, and the comforting voice, and the _being nice_) had _worked._

Molly smiled.

It _looked_ small, it _looked_ weak—but it was _deceptive._

And it was _sincere._

Sherlock watched Molly smile, nod and then exit the lab.

Once she was gone, he texted John to meet him here—and then he texted _Moriarty _to meet him here.

* * *

><p>The first thing Jim thought when he got Sherlock's texts—<p>

_Come and play._

_Bart's Hospital rooftop._

_SH_

(and then, a second later)

_PS. Got something_

_of yours you might_

_want back._

—was _Molly._

Had Sherlock_ finally _figured out that Jim had 'stolen' Molly from him and so 'stolen' her back somehow?

_If so,_ Sherlock was really playing the _villain,_ here, by 'stealing' his enemy's girl.

Even _Jim _wouldn't do something as cliché as _that._

(That's something Jim would expect from The Rockin' Men—or whatever those bumbling buffoons had called themselves—not a_ genius _like _Sherlock Holmes.) _

And so Jim decided that Sherlock wouldn't, _either_, and must have had something _else_ for him at the hospital.

_That_ could _wait._

After all, the night was still 'young', Jim still had time for having this 'meeting' with Molly.

It would be _funny,_ whatever she'd have to say this time, to try to convince him to _stop._

And so he went to meet Molly, just to kill time until his meeting with Sherlock.

But he wasn't going to meet her at the hospital, that was for sure.

That was where James _expected _him to go.

It was also what Molly expected.

And Jim wanted to_ surprise_ her.

He wanted to see her eyes and mouth open wide just one more time (_or a couple more)_ before everything finally _ended._

So he went to her flat.

She'd be home from work soon, wouldn't she?

She wouldn't wait for him _forever,_ there at the hospital, before she figured it out (or gave up) and left.

All he had to do was wait.

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock Holmes has fled police custody. <em>

_-DI Lestrade_

_**####**_

_Do you want me to turn him in to you if I see him? _

_-Molly _

_**####**_

_No. _

_I want you to help him in every way you can. _

_-DI Lestrade._

* * *

><p>"You were gone a <em>very<em> long time, Miss Hooper. How _rude_ of you to keep me waiting…"

Molly hadn't even gotten through the door, hadn't even turned on the light before she heard Jim's voice.

"Jim!"

She jumped, holding in an exclamation of surprise, and was glad it was too dark for Jim to see her do that once again.

Molly's hand reached over to the wall, fumbling until found the light switch.

But when it finally _did_, she felt Jim's hand covering hers, insisting that the two of them work together.

Lights on, Molly could see Jim standing right in front of her, with no regard whatsoever for her personal space.

The expression on his face, Molly realized, must have been hers—or as close as Jim could mimic it.

She knew that her face was slowing falling back from shock into neutral, as she took a deep breath that she tried to keep from catching.

Jim just looked like he was trying hard to breathe, with his mouth and eyelids forced open and not returning to a normal parting as they were supposed to do, naturally.

And still, _somehow,_ he managed to look sarcastic.

"Where _were _you?" Jim asked, in a whisper.

He leaned towards Molly, who backed away until she leaned against the door, closing it behind her.

Jim still hadn't let go of her one hand on the light switch, and instead of doing this, he decided to add some _symmetry_ to the situation by grabbing her other and using it to pin her against the door.

Molly looked down, nervously, breaking eye contact (which she had never been that good at maintaining, anyway).

She wasn't really _afraid_ of Jim, at least not _anymore…_

…but she couldn't let _him_ know this.

Because if he ever thought that she _wasn't _scared of him he might decide to _remind_ her why she_ should_ be.

And _that's_ what Molly was afraid of.

(That and everything between them being just another _lie.)_

"I was working…" Molly answered, "There were a lot of bodies—"

"Do you know why I think your nose is _cute,_ Molly?" Jim interrupted to inquire to which Molly shook her head, "…it's because it crinkles when you _lie._"

"I'm not—I didn't—" Molly tried to say (which really spoke for itself).

Jim rolled his eyes.

"Only the nose knows…" he sighed.

"_What?" _Molly said, confused.

"You've got a _tell,_ my dear." Jim explained (although that wasn't actually much of an explanation), "You're careful when you lie, because your always careful in everything you do. You look them in the eyes, whoever you're lying to, you move your mouth precisely, deliberately…saying things you know you'd say just how you'd say them, like your playing yourself in a movie…you're_ terrible _at lying—_and you want everyone to know._ So that they think you'd never_ dare_…but you crinkle your nose, ever-so slightly, not on purpose, you crinkle your nose."

"Oh…" Molly responded, unsure of what else she _could _say.

"So, Pinocchio, wanna try that again?" Jim suggested, "Tell me what you were _really_ doing…"

"I was…I was with someone that I used to love." Molly stated, truthfully.

"Oh?" Jim raised an eyebrow.

"…and I realized that I didn't love him anymore." Molly continued, still telling the truth.

"And just _who _was this 'someone' you used to 'love', love?" Jim inquired, smirking.

He thought she meant _Sherlock,_ of course, and she_ did_…but she wasn't going to let Jim know that.

"My ex-boyfriend Robert." Molly lied.

And before Jim could see her nose 'crinkle', Molly freed her hands from his, using them to pull Jim's head down to hers for a kiss.

_She knew_ he'd know this was only a distraction.

_She knew_ he'd know she'd lie about ever 'loving' Sherlock.

It's what he _expected_ her to do.

And so she did exactly that.

Jim _would _have said something about this, but his mouth was busy at the moment and so he decided to forgive Molly's lie (for _now,_ at least).

But although his _mouth_ was currently occupied, his _hands_ were free so and set out to find their own distractions.

And _that _was how Jim Moriarty was distracted all night while Sherlock Holmes made all the proper preparations for faking his death, putting all chess pieces into place on the board, and just waiting patiently for his enemy to make the next move.

_How convenient._

* * *

><p><strong>Yeah well...<strong>_  
><em>

**(Read the whole Author's Note to get the explanation of a lifetime!)  
><strong>

**First off, the thing Kitty...that's basically my reason for not doing _dark!Molly. _**

**Not only do I think it's out of character, it's also kinda boring (they're too alike) or cliche (good girl gone bad for the bad boy) or whatever you wanna call it.  
><strong>

**I think it makes Molly weak.  
><strong>

**lol.  
><strong>

**Well...****  
><strong>

**And the whole, 'the nose knows' thing...  
><strong>

**...that's another reference (surprise, surprise...more references!), this time to this old 80's show called 'Wiseguy'.  
><strong>

**Americans can find the first season for free on Hulu. I'd definitely recommend it.  
><strong>

**There was this character, Mel Profit who was an insane arms dealer who lived on a party yacht in international waters, threating and buying government officials, and the like...  
><strong>

**I remembered him when I realized that Jim's dad is totally Kevin Spacey (Mel's actor) even though he's American. **

**Then I found out Andrew Scott and Kevin Spacey probably know each other to (Spacey bought some theater company Scott used to work at or something like that).  
><strong>

**...and so like Jim and James's dad is definately Kevin Spacey...just with like a ginger, though (like Spacey had in Outbreak, I think...). **

**I haven't figured out who their mom is yet...but she has brown hair and eyes like her sons (they have their dads face shape and forehead, though).****  
><strong>

**And then that's when I realized who James is.  
><strong>

**Since Mycroft is Mark Gatiss with no beard...James is Steven Moffat with a beard!  
><strong>

**...which also makes John's unseen lesbian sister Sue Vertue (who's actually blonde, too...but not a lesbian-isn't she like married to Moffat or something...?)  
><strong>

**lol.  
><strong>

**I'm so wierd.  
><strong>

**Well anyway, after they killed off crazy Mel, Wiseguy's producer liked the character so much that he made another show 'Profit' (which I've never seen and got canceled after like the first episode) with a character based on Mel.  
><strong>

**...and guess what _his_ name was...  
><strong>

**Jim!  
><strong>

**lol.  
><strong>

**And he was Irish American, too.  
><strong>

**Funny how things always work out.  
><strong>

**(In fiction.)  
><strong>

**I love Wikipedia so much.  
><strong>

**...Anyone still reading this?  
><strong>

**If you are, sorry for my ramblings...  
><strong>

**And please review!  
><strong>


	39. What Do They Say About Magnets, Again?

**Sorry for the wait!**

**And sorry to the reviews I didn't reply to!  
><strong>

**Now...  
><strong>

**Flashback chapter commence!  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Water can be as passionate or as controlled as Fire.<p>

Fire, however, never had Water's ability to _sit still._

Once Fire stops dancing, it's dead.

There are many ways that Fire can die.

You can drown it.

You can blow it out.

You can smother it.

But there is only _one_ way that Fire can _live._

It needs to _breathe._

* * *

><p>Carl Powers had <em>shook…<em>

…_seized…_

…and _sank._

Now he was flopping ( like a fish out of water), up on the tile poolside, crowd standing in shock around him as the lifeguard tried to get him to _breathe_ again.

"No! No!" a woman was shouting, "My son! My son!"

And the other swimmers were just floating in the pool, watching, not sure what else to do.

"You're doing it wrong!" a man shouted, throwing people out of his way to get to the lifeguard kneeling by Carl, "It's not working!"

The circle broke to allow the man, accompanied by the woman, _the parents_ to enter and sit on the damp floor by their son.

The room was voiceless, now.

_Breathless. _

Everyone was holding their breath quietly, staring down at Carl, expecting him at any moment to sputter, spit out some water, and just _breathe,_ for god's sake, _breathe._

But he _didn't._

The lifeguard began the chest compressions again—

…1…2…3…4…

—trying CPR every thirty seconds.

And the room was still silent, still voiceless, still _breathless…_

…_except_ for the barely audible sound only the undistracted ear (and mind) would register.

Jim Moriarty, standing and watching with the rest of the crowd, could hear the lifeguard humming something, under his breath, as he _tried and tried and tried_ to get Car Powers to breathe again.

…_Ah...ha...ha…ha…stayin' alive…_

* * *

><p>In school, Jim was a fish out of water.<p>

And Carl Powers and his 'friends' (the richer boys he tried so hard to _impress)_ would beat kids up for that.

But not Jim Moriarty.

Not Jim.

There was a boy, maybe a bit younger than them (smaller, easy target), shaking on the grass of the field behind the school.

The bruises hadn't formed yet, but the scrapes on his knees (pushed over while still on the sidewalk—he had_ crawled _over to the grass) were fresh and dirtied with mud.

By now, this boy had stopped begging for the older, bigger boys around him to _stop_, please, for god's sake, _just stop._

Instead of words, there was a pink sort of_…foam…_bubbling from his mouth.

Now, Carl was no genius but even_ he_ knew that flashing lights weren't the _only _way to induce seizures.

"Look at him dance!" he cackled as the boy below him convulsed.

His laughter was the loudest (forced?) and continued to grow as the laughs of the other boys circling around their injured classmate shrunk.

"Told you," Carl continued, glancing over at them, grin huge (forced?), "I _told you_ I could make him do it! You all said you wanted to see him do it! You all said—"

But before he could finish, Carl's 'friends' (the richer boys who were so hard to impress but so easy _disappoint)_ turn and ran, _wordlessly_, away from Carl and the boy on the ground, on some unspoken consensus that left Carl out of their in-group as much as it left the boy on the ground (_and as much as it left Jim). _

"Wait!" Carl called after them, but received no answer.

Even the boy on the ground was quiet, now, unconscious.

Carl kicked him once more, this time only very lightly, to turn him over on his side so that the vomit spilled from his lips onto the grass beside him.

At least he could breathe.

The field was silent…

…and then Carl heard clapping, slow, steady clapping.

He whirled around to find Jim Moriarty (that strange kid in his year) standing a few yards away from him, having somehow been able to sneak up on him.

"What are you doing?" Carl demanded.

"I'm applauding." Jim stated, smiling, "You put on a 'jolly good show' if I do say so myself."

"You were watching?" Carl exclaimed, glancing around to make sure no one else was there who might have _seen._

"Of course." Jim shrugged, shoving his hands into his uniform pockets, "I like to watch. Don't you?"

"I—"

"I know you do. I see it in your eyes. You like to watch…but you _love _to do more. _More_ than just _watch._ You love to hurt people, Carl. I see _that_ in your eyes too."

Jim stared into Carl's blue eyes and Carl stared into Jim's.

They looked _black._

Like _black holes_ that could suck you in if you weren't careful and never _ever _spit you back out.

Carl looked away, down at the ground.

There was their fellow classmate, unconscious, smaller and younger, on the grass between them and Carl was thankful for this weak wall protecting him.

Jim wouldn't _dare—_

—oh, but he _would._

And he _did._

Jim started towards Carl, stepping over the boy on the ground, to stand so close to Carl that they could hear and feel each other's breathing.

Carl stepped backwards.

"What do you _want…?"_ he questioned, eyeing Jim suspiciously while making sure neither his face nor his voice betrayed any fear.

"What I _want_…" Jim answered, "…is for you to_ hurt_ me, Carl, just like you did poor little _whatever-his-name-is… _I want you to do _that_ to me."

"_Why?"_ Carl asked, "Why would you want me to do that?"

"Why _not?"_ Jim returned, casually, "Do you even need a reason? I know you like it, hurting people, _love it_…Why do you need an _excuse_ to have _fun?"_

Carl stepped backwards again, catching himself before he tripped over the incline between grass and pavement.

"I'm not doing anything to you." he spat.

_"Oh come on,_ Carly…" Jim groaned, "You're missing out…and I feel like I am too. I wanna know what it's like, _getting hurt_, getting hurt by _you_…I'll _scream,_ if you want me to, I'll _beg_—or I can shut up, bite my tongue if _that's_ how you'd like it…I can even hit you first, if you _really_ need an excuse—"

"No."

"Please, Carl, please…I want you to _hurt_ me, I _need _you to hurt me. _Why won't you hurt me?" _

"…Because…because you want me to….because you're _different." _

Jim raised his eyebrows at the word 'different'.

He stopped his approach, still on the grass, and separated by the change in terrain, as Carl was standing the sidewalk.

"Different." Jim repeated, "…What do you mean 'different'?"

"You're different." Carl restated, "You just _are._ You're not like the rest of us…"

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" Jim inquired, genuinely seeking an answer.

"It's not either, it just is." Carl replied.

"Oh." Jim accepted, "…And because I'm different, you won't hurt me. You're not my enemy…so does that mean you're my _friend?" _

"No." Carl denied, "It just means you're different…and you're not my friend, you're not my enemy—"

"Then what am I to you?" Jim interrupted, shouting.

"_Nothing." _Carl said, "You're nothing."

(It was the answer Jim had been expecting, he just had to hear Carl say it himself.)

"You're nothing." Carl said again (and again, and again, and again), "Nothing! Nothing!"

And then he _laughed._

It was nervous, forced laughter…but it was laughter all the same.

And _that_, really, was Carl's _mistake._

Because the opposite of love is not hate, it is _indifference._

Love and hate are _passion;_ indifference is _nothing._

And Jim Moriarty was_ tired_ of nothing.

Tired of indifference.

And that, really, was Carl's mistake.

Because the strongest love is _unrequited_ love.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had sat on the stands, idly watching the swimming tournament with half an eye, while the other three-quarters of his eyes kept a look out for his 'friend' (the nice older boy who agreed to do some 'business' with him here like proper businessmen).<p>

It didn't take Sherlock long to realize that this meeting wasn't going to take place and he wasn't going to get the _chemicals_ necessary for his _experiment._

At this point, he _would_ have gotten up and left—

(Wasn't he _late_ for something, anyway?)

—but suddenly something_ interesting _started to happen.

One of the swimmers in the competition was no longer _swimming. _

He was writhing in the water…and then he was sinking.

Sherlock heard the lifeguard blow his whistle and saw him dive into the pool, towards the boy.

He sat still as people jumped up from their seats in the balcony to hurry downstairs and over to the swimmer.

The lifeguard had dragged him out of the water and was now trying to revive the swimmer by the side of the pool.

_Why was the lifeguard doing CPR? _Sherlock wondered.

This boy obviously was already dead.

All his movements were just residual muscle spasms.

Besides, the boy hadn't even drowned.

That's why the chest compressions didn't push water out of his lungs; there wasn't any in there to begin with!

…_.God, these people were so stupid…_

Sherlock finally stood when the crowd surrounding the dead swimmer blocked his view of the scene.

A woman was screaming and a man was shouting.

They must have been the parents since everyone gaping in horror at this sad event _(gazing intently at this interesting event in their usually boring lives)_ let them through to kneel beside the boy.

The audience circled in closer—except for one person.

One boy, about Sherlock (and the swimmer's) age, backed away from the crowd and while they were all distracted by the death of a child, slipped away into the locker-room.

Sherlock followed him.

Sherlock deduced that Carl Powers had not drowned.

He was _right._

Sherlock deduced that Carl Powers had been murdered.

He was _right. _

And Sherlock deduced that the murderer was the mysterious boy standing in front of the locker-room mirror trying to laugh.

He was _right._

But none of that mattered.

Outside the building that the pool was located inside, there was the flashing lights of ambulances and police cars.

Paramedics were carrying the body of the dead swimmer_—Carl Powers _(Sherlock had just learned his name)—into the ambulance.

_Why?  
><em>

What was the point of rushing him to a hospital if he was _already dead?_

…Sherlock didn't _understand…._

There were police officers standing around, taking everyone's statements, surveying the area.

(And this made Sherlock _hopeful_—until they decided that Power's death_ hadn't_ been a murder.)

_Why?_

What was _the point_ of calling the police, if the police weren't going to _investigate? _

…Sherlock didn't _understand…_

And neither did this _stupid _police officer, either, apparently.

He was young and so low-ranking (_nervous_—looking around the 'crime scene' (as it _would _be called _if_ they were calling the death a crime) like he didn't know what to do with himself…maybe this was one of his first cases, even.

"I'm telling you," Sherlock told the officer (whatever-his-name-was), "That boy didn't drown. I know what drowning looks like—"

"And how do you know that, kid?" the officer laughed.

"I've read about." Sherlock stated, "And I saw it happen. I saw Carl Powers die and he _didn't drown._ He was murdered."

"Oh, really?" the officer patronized, "By who?"

"One of his classmates." Sherlock declared, "I saw him there in the locker room. He was laughing—at least he was pretending too."

"I don't know _who_ you saw …" The officer responded, no longer laughing and now speaking very seriously, "…but you need to understand that grief affects everyone differently and the boy was probably just in shock at seeing his classmate die. You say he was pretending to laugh? He was _probably_ just trying not to _cry."_

"He killed him. I know he did." Sherlock insisted, "Carl Powers, he was an athlete a swimmer and probably a runner, too. But _this_ boy, the one I saw in the locker-room…he was _not._ Athletes normally verbally and physically abuse those who are_ not_—those who're not like _them. _Powers probably did this to his classmates and now one of them has gotten their revenge."

"You don't have any evidence of that, kid." The police officer warned, holding up a finger sternly, "So you can't just be making accusations.

Oh, he thought he was _so_ much _older and wiser_ than Sherlock just because of his uniform.

_The man was a bloody idiot! _

Sherlock was debating internally whether to find this _humorous_ or _disgusting._

"Do you have a cigarette?" he asked.

If he couldn't have any other drugs, he at least deserved (and needed, desperately needed) some nicotine.

Besides, he was sure the police officer's reaction to his question would be interesting enough.

"What?" the police officer reacted.

"_Do you have a cigarette?"_ Sherlock repeated, this time more slowly and with more emphasis.

"No!" the officer refused, "I don't—"

"Yes you do." Sherlock countered.

_Obviously,_ the police officer was a smoker.

Sherlock could smell it on him; the scent was permanently sewn into his uniform no matter how many times he'd wash it.

The smell of smoke.

And where there's smoke, there's…

…_cigarettes. _

"_No," _the officer repeated, this time more slowly and with more emphasis, _"I don't."_

(And _this time_ Sherlock believed him.

So_ that_ was why he'd been looking around nervously, earlier.)

"But you do smoke." Sherlock checked.

"That's not any of your business, kid," the police officer snapped, "and_ you_ shouldn't be smoking at your age. It's not healthy. How old are you, anyway?"

"Fourteen." Sherlock shrugged, "And smoking's not healthy at _any_ age. But that hardly matters. The world's full of that can that can hurt you, that can kill you…they're inescapable. So what's the point of trying? I don't want to whither away into old age. Being that slow of body, slow of mind…that useless…it would be so boring I couldn't stand it. I won't let myself get like that! I_ want_ to die young. And before that, I want to really, really _live." _

"You're a strange kid." The officer chuckled, "…now why don't you run along now. Get home before it gets dark. I wouldn't want to have to call your parents."

"…fine." Sherlock acquiesced and after he had turned to leave, he added, "Good luck, then."

"What?" the officer inquired, raising an eyebrow as he watched him walk away, "With the case? _I told you_ we're not ruling it a homicide so we're not investigating."

"No." Sherlock shook his head, looking back at him, "I mean with your girlfriend. You're going to propose to her tonight, aren't you?"

"Yes I—how did you know that?" the officer inquired, taken aback and completely confused.

"That's the ring box, there in your pocket." Sherlock explained, "I thought it was a half-empty pack of cigarettes but it wasn't. She must've asked you to quit."

And the police officer couldn't help but laugh at that, too, his _awe and appreciation_ balanced by the fact that it was a_ child_ that had figured him out (_not _the detectives he worked for that were _supposed _to do this sort of thing) which was kind of _funny_ because it was actually kind of _cute._

"Could've been anything in my pocket, though." He considered, "So how did you know?"

"You looked nervous." Sherlock explained and finally allowed himself to smile (—even if only just a very little).

* * *

><p>The school building was locked and dark, just like the sky above it.<p>

And just like the sky above it, the field was decorated with tiny glowing dots of lights.

_Stars._

Fire burning bright.

_Candles. _

"Why do you care so much about that Powers boy?" Victor asked, "You didn't know him. You didn't even go to this school. So why are we here?"

"We're here," Sherlock explained, "Because my brother already knows I'm interested the Carl Powers 'case'—or lack thereof—which is a logical reason for me to attend the candlelight vigil in his honor."

They were weaving their way through the rows of students, parents, teachers and other sympathetic community members that had gathered to mourn the death (which was_ not_ a murder. _definitely not.)_ of Carl Powers.

"You mean a good excuse." Victor corrected, "But why are you so interested in this to begin with?"

"The same reason I'm interested in _you."_ Sherlock stated, "Because I'm _bored."_

"Oh," Victor chuckled, stopping and turning to look his 'client' up and down, "So you're _'interested'_ in me now?"

He wondered if this strange (and _beautiful)_, younger boy who had never had a girlfriend (or a boyfriend—and _not _for lack of 'interested' parties) was simply _oblivious _to the innuendo in his statement…

…or fully aware and just trying to _mess_ with him.

"I'm interested in what you can give me." Sherlock clarified (although it didn't really help 'clean-up' the meaning), also stopping, but staring around at the crowd holding candles, rather than at upperclassman.

"I don't _'give'_." Victor said, "I sell, I trade, I do business. Nothing is for free."

"I have the money." Sherlock replied, reaching into his jacket pocket.

"And I have what you want, too." Victor returned, "But before we do our 'business', I've got to know….why does a smart kid like you want to get high? You don't seem the type, really. You're not like other junkies—or even the ones who're just 'experimenting' or whatever, just trying to have some fun with it—_no._ you're not like anyone else, really. You're different…and so _why,_ why would someone like_ you_ want to do this?"

"_I told you."_ Sherlock groaned, "I'm bored…I just want to know what it feels like…now are you going to sell it to me or not?"

"Yeah, I am." Victor nodded, "But you sure picked an _interesting_ place to do this, by the way. In front of all these…_watchful eyes." _

"They won't notice." Sherlock shrugged, "They could look right at us and still not know. People see…they just don't observe. They're so blind, so stupid, so—"

"Alright, alright!" Victor interrupted, laughing awkwardly, "People are stupid and you're so much smarter than everyone else. I get it!"

"No, you _don't."_ Sherlock laughed, also, forced and bitterly, shaking his head, "My brother, on the other hand, does…He's a hawk and he sees everything. And he always knows, too. He's the reason you couldn't make it to our last meeting."

"I said I was sorry about that," Victor exclaimed, "I told you the train I was on got delayed. Track maintenance—"

"Mycroft." Sherlock corrected.

"Whatever." Victor conceded, sighing, "Let's just get this done."

Sherlock Holmes was normally a very quiet (and very _pretty,_ as well) boy…but when he started talking he just didn't stop and all of it, all of it was in some incomprehensible language only he could understand.

(What the hell was a _'mycroft',_ anyway?)

Victor was tired of it.

He had met Sherlock in school because Sherlock, being the genius that he was, took all the upper level classes with the older kids, rather than with those in the same grade.

The only reason Sherlock hadn't skipped several years in school was because of math.

Sure, he'd aced every standardized test on mathematics, skewing all the other students' scores…

…but the actual classes he'd failed.

Just because he had decided the work was too easy _and so_ too boring.

"Yes." Sherlock agreed, pulling out his wallet and the necessary amount of money.

Instead of reaching into his pocket, however, Victor reached into the waistband of his green underwear to pull out the small plastic bag.

(He'd learned well to keep his product protected from teachers, police officers, and security guards always asking him to 'turn out his pockets'.)

Victor handed Sherlock the baggy and Sherlock handed Victor the money.

They even shook on their deal like proper businessmen.

"Thank you." Sherlock thanked, politely but coldly.

"No, thank _you." _Victor thanked, mockingly but warmly.

And Sherlock raised neither eyebrow and took but one more glance at Victor (eyes and emotion indeterminable), before turning to leave.

"Wait." Victor called after him, catching his arm to turn him around.

"…_What?"_ Sherlock asked, careful not to seem too angry (although he was clearly_ uncomfortable_ at being _touched). _

"It's your first time." Victor stated, "You shouldn't go off and do it alone. It's not safe. You need someone…more _experienced_ to, you know, _teach _you…"

And Sherlock wondered if this scruffy (but gay), older boy who had never even been addicted to the drugs he sold to his fellow students (and their friends) was simply_ oblivious_ to the innuendo in his statement…

…or fully aware and just trying to make him equally as aware _(and 'interested'). _

"It's not my first time, I don't need teachers to learn, and I work best on my own." Sherlock dismissed, wrenching himself free from Victor's grasp and turning around once more to leave.

This time, Victor watched Sherlock go in silence and couldn't help but laugh to himself as he disappeared into the candle-holding crowd.

The people were singing a song now; some sort of hymn or something.

_Something about angels…_

* * *

><p>Jim stood on the edge of the crowd, watching them sway back and forth and sing in unison, shoulders touching.<p>

He was away from and behind everyone else, alone…

…except for a few other boys, about his age, on the outskirts of the candlelight vigil.

Jim turned to watch them.

The three boys, some of Carl Powers' 'friends', still holding their candles, stood in a circle (triangle) surrounding _something._

_What was it?_

In the darkness, Jim crept closer to get a better view.

"Where did you get it?" the first boy asked.

"Science lab." The second snickered, "Stole it this afternoon and kept it in my backpack all this time."

"This is gonna be good." The third smirked, bending down to grab for whatever was in the center of the three of them.

Now Jim could see that it was a paper-cup, turned upside down to cover _something. _

The third boy lifted it up to reveal what that_ something_ was.

_A spider. _

A tarantula that darted back in forth in the dark as soon as it was set free from its paper prison, the boys' feet stomping around it, trapping it between them inside their circle (triangle) of hell.

"That thing's huge!" the third boy exclaimed, jumping up and away from the spider, tripping backwards.

The paper-cup was thrown through the air during that commotion (so that the third boy could hold onto his candle as he tripped) and fell behind him, rolling across the grassy field until it landed almost at Jim's feet.

"Yeah I know." The second boy grinned, "It can eat a mouse."

"It could kill a _man_…" the third boy shuddered, rejoining the circle (triangle) quickly but tentatively, "…just look at those fangs…"

"Don't let it bite you." the first taunted, nudging the tarantula towards the third with his toe.

The third boy backed away.

"Don't let it escape!" the second boy snapped, moving close the gap between his and the other boys' feet.

Once again the spider was trapped in its 'play-pen'.

"Now…who's gonna go first?" the first boy inquired, looking at both of his friends in turn.

"_I_ will." The third volunteered, "I hate spiders."

"It'll _squeal,_ you know." The second squealed in delight, "Squeal in pain. They can feel pain, tarantulas, _just like me and you…"_

The third boy gulped.

The second boy laughed.

"Can't do it now, can you?"

"I can…and I will."

The third took a deep breath, steadied himself and readied his candle.

"Go on, then…" the second boy urged, still grinning.

The third boy began to lower himself towards the tarantula at his feet.

"Here we go…" the first boy acknowledged, already looking away.

Holding his breath and squinting his eyes shut, the third boy brought his burning candle closer and closer to the spider _until…until…_

"Excuse me." Sherlock grumbled, emerging from the crowd to bump into the three boys (and their spider).

He pushed sharply past them, parting their circle (triangle) as he strode away from the candlelight vigil and the crowd across the field.

"Watch where you're going!" the second boy shouted after Sherlock, shaking his fist after him.

(—once Sherlock was already a safe distance away, of course.)

He then turned back to his friends.

"Where is it?" he asked them, scanning the grass for a sign of the spider.

"I dunno…" the third boy answered, "I think it got away."

It was dark and difficult to see.

Already close to ground, he used his candle to illuminate the area as he and the other two searched.

And_ although_ they searched, the boys never found that spider.

"Whatever, let's just go." The first boy decided, finally giving and throwing his arms up towards the starry sky.

"Yeah." The other two boys agreed, nodding, "Let's go home…"

The three friends threw their candles to the grass and stepped on them as if they were cigarettes to put them out (oh, they were _so _cool), before walking away.

Jim Moriarty watched them go, holding a candle in one hand and a tarantula inside a paper-cup in the other.

* * *

><p>"Do you know why you're here, Mr. James Moriarty?"<p>

'_Here'_, of course, was the old mansion restored and then converted into a 'safe place' for the pretty rich kids with problems.

"_Jim._ Call me Jim."

"Alright, Mr. Jim—"

"_Just_ Jim. I'm just a child, after all. No need to waste formalities on someone like me."

"Alright, then, _Jim_…what are you here for?"

"A holiday."

"…really? So you consider an indefinite stay at our psychiatric hospital a 'holiday'?"

"Of course, I do. It's like staying in a hotel. I've got room service and the staff's all really nice."

And that was _true._

It was like living in luxury here; everything was as comfortable as it was beautiful, decorated with (fake) 'antique' furniture to match the architecture.

_(Except in the addition nobody sees from the outside. In the basement where the walls were white and the furniture is gray.) _

And the doctors, nurses, counselors, and other employees were (fake) 'smiling' all the time, always very polite and helpful.

_(Except in the addition nobody talks about on the outside. In the hell where the demons tortured the damned souls.) _

"Well I'm glad that you find your accommodations here—"

"—_accommodating?" _

"Yes. And I'm glad you feel you're being treated well…but you need to understand, Jim, that this isn't a 'holiday'. This is serious, Jim, very serious. And you need to take this seriously."

"Oh, I am, doctor, I am. _Very _seriously."

"That's good, Jim, that's _very_ good. Now can you tell me, '_very seriously'_, why you think you're here."

"I'm here because my brother's had me committed."

"And_ why_ did your brother have you committed, Jim?"

"My brother had me committed because he got tired of looking at me. He doesn't think I'm pretty and he doesn't love me anymore."

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Jim, but I'm sure that your brother doesn't think that about you at all. Your brother loves you very much, Jim, and that's why he sent you here. Because he wants to get you the help you need."

"Now can you tell me_ why _I need help?"

"Well we're here to figure that out, Jim. I'm going to evaluate you today to see what—if any—psychological disorders you may have so that we can move forward with your treatment."

"You think I'm _insane,_ don't you, doc?"

"I don't think anything about you, Jim. I'm not judging you at all. I'm only here to help you. Everyone wants to help you, Jim. And you should feel no shame about any diagnosis you receive, about any emotions you feel, about anything—"

"_Good. _Because I _don't._ I _don't_ feel ashamed. I don't feel anything at all."

"Not _anything?" _

"No, nothing. I feel nothing."

"And how did you feel when your classmate Carl Powers tragically passed away two weeks ago?"

"I felt…I felt nothing."

"It's okay, Jim, you can tell me. It's okay to feel sad—even angry. Whatever you felt when you saw him drown…and then afterwards, all of those emotions, they're perfectly legitimate—and _perfectly normal." _

"I didn't feel anything!"

"Alright, Jim, that's okay. That's okay….And what you…what you _didn't_ feel, did that…did that lead you to do what you did the night of the candlelight vigil in Carl's memory?"

"You mean setting the school on fire?"

"Yes, Jim. Can you explain to me why you did that?"

"Yes, doc. I did that because I wanted to see it burn..."

"And _why_ did you want to burn down your school?"

"No! Not my _school!_ The_ spider! _I wanted to see _the spider _burn!"

"…the spider? So there was a spider there that night. Tell me about the spider, Jim."

"I stole it from the science lab in the school."

"So it was a _real, actual_ spider, then?"

"Yes. A tarantula."

"And why did you steal it from the science lab in your school?"

"Because my friends asked me to—at least I think they're my friends. Carl was my friend…_my only friend_…but once he, um…died…I-I didn't have anybody else to talk to. And so when they asked me to bring them the spider I did..."

"..Mmhm..."

"And when they asked me to set it on fire…"

"What did you do then, Jim?"

"I—well, I tried. They told me it would squeal if I burned it. They said they wanted to hear it _squeal._ They said they wanted to see it _burn._ And so I...I tried to light it with my candle…but it got away and when I started to chase it across the field...it just—I just…"

"Go on, Jim."

"…I dropped my candle…"

"…_And?"_

"It landed on the school. My friends, they just ran away. Then everyone ran away. It all happened so fast I didn't know what was going on. I just—I mean I didn't mean to—I only wanted—"

"It's okay, Jim, it's alright. It's not your fault."

"…it's not?"

"No, Jim, it's not. And you don't need to feel ashamed about it, or bad. There wasn't even any real damage to the school building and no one was hurt…"

"…I know…brick, it doesn't catch on fire… but_ people_…people _can."_

"Yes they _can._ But they _didn't. You _didn't catch anyone on fire, Jim."

"…no. I didn't."

"Thank god for that."

"Yes, _thank god_…You know, I learned about that in science class, that thing about what can burn and what can't. It's Chemistry…and the tarantula, I took it from my Biology class. I love Biology. Plants, animals, evolution, the ecosystem..._the circle of life..._Wanna know something I learned in Biology class, doctor?"

"Yes, Jim, I do. Please tell me."

"Everything is connected. Everything ends just how it began. It's all one big circle. In a way, you can never die. Because once you die, your body decomposes and then plants grow. And the plants, they're alive; they're living things, too. Animals eat them, and animals eat other animals. Humans are animals and we eat plants and animals, as well. It's all a circle, the circle of life. And so, in a way, we'll always be reborn no matter how many times we die."

"That's beautiful, Jim."

"_Very_ beautiful?"

"Yes, Jim, _'very'_ beautiful."

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was a mess on the ground for his older brother Mycroft to clean up.<p>

He was gazing up (eyes wide-open and dilated) at the burning sun as if he couldn't see it there.

"You honestly thought I wouldn't find you here, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, staring down at him, "It's a public park, for god's sake."

"Oh. You've found me. Congratulations, Mycroft." Sherlock grumbled, "I wasn't hiding. I just didn't think you'd waste your time looking. But now that you have…_move._ You're blocking my sunlight."

Sherlock attempted to shoo Mycroft away with a wave of his hand, but instead of getting out of the way, Mycroft bent down beside him.

"You could be arrested for public indecency." Mycroft warned, "…and that would be the least of the charges."

"I'm not naked." Sherlock countered, closing his eyes as soon as he saw Mycroft's face.

And it was true.

Sherlock was wearing underwear (although Mycroft wasn't sure that it was actually _his_…it was _green_…).

The rest of his clothing was strewn about the general vicinity of the hill they currently occupied.

_"Still,"_ Mycroft insisted, gesturing to the mess around him and to Sherlock himself, "This is _completely_ indecent…what even happened here?"

"We were sunbathing." Sherlock stated, not opening his eyes "I'm trying to get a tan…"

" '_We'?"_ Mycroft repeated, "There's no one else here but you and I, Sherlock, and I assure you I am _not_ 'sunbathing'."

"Oh, so Victor left…I didn't notice…" Sherlock figured, sitting up and opening his eyes so he could look around park.

Mycroft was beside him and about a quarter mile away there were two boys (one older, one younger—probably brothers) flying a kite high in the sky (—that momentarily blocked Sherlock's sun).

Mycroft stood up.

"And are _those_ Victors?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow and eyeing Sherlock's choice of covering.

"Yes." Sherlock confirmed, with a _brief_, sarcastic laugh, "They are."

And they really _were._

One of Sherlock's 'friends' (one of the very first members his Homeless Network) had warned him Mycroft was coming.

And Sherlock knew Mycroft would search anyone near Sherlock for drugs—so Victor had had to run off quickly.

They'd traded underwear so if Victor was caught later and searched nothing _incriminating_ would be found on him.

Because Sherlock also that Mycroft would never search_ his_ underwear—even if he'd search _stranger's_ underwear (not _personally,_ of course, Mycroft had people for that).

"Really?" Mycroft replied, "Because I think you shouldn't be skipping school."

"It's June." Sherlock reminded, "Class doesn't begin again until August."

"Yes, for most students it doesn't." Mycroft agreed, "But _you're _in summer school, _remember?_ Because you _failed_ your spring semester."

"No, I don't remember." Sherlock shrugged, "Must've_ deleted_ that bit of useless information. No wonder I missed class today…"

"And yesterday, and the day before that…" Mycroft added, sighing, "Stand up, Sherlock, you should be ashamed of yourself."

"Why?" Sherlock scoffed, falling backwards into the grassy hill behind him instead of standing, "Because I don't waste my time on pointless activities like _you _do? Because I don't _lie _and _pretend_ and _smile_ everyone for no reason other than because it's what one's_ supposed_ to do according to the 'rules of life' that somebody somewhere so long ago just _made up?_"

"It's my job to do that." Mycroft corrected.

"Oh, _yes,_ you're _'job'."_ Sherlock considered, "'Making nice' to consolidate your political power, rising to higher and higher level positions in the government—which in turn restricts the power you've worked _so hard_ to gain. What a ridiculous waste of time. You're like a _rat_ running on a wheel—"

"Even running in circles builds strength." Mycroft countered, folding his arms, "And you need some strength of_ will_ if you can't tolerate boredom."

"Fine!" Sherlock exclaimed, suddenly jumping up, "I'll go to class now, if you want me to! There's still time…just let me get my clothes on."

Sherlock dashed around the grass, lifting his shirt then his pants up from the ground and shaking the clumps of dirt and the wrinkles out of them.

"You can't go to class like this." Mycroft told him, "You're _high." _

"Yes." Sherlock affirmed, nodding as he pulled on his pants, "It makes the boring people and the boring things more… _'tolerable'_, as you put it. Makes me almost as stupid as them. I think that is called _empathy…"_

"You'll go to school tomorrow." Mycroft declared, "_Today_ you're going home…and you're going to eat."

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock refused.

"You need to stop smoking, too, Sherlock." Mycroft chastised, "Nicotine may limit your feeling of hunger but it does _not _change your biological need to _eat._ There are some things that all human beings, even people like _us,_ have in common. The basic necessities of life—"

"There are no 'basic necessities' to live." Sherlock interrupted, "Food, water, shelter…to '_need_' any of those, first you have to _want _to live."

"Everyone wants to live." Mycroft stated.

"Not _everyone."_ Sherlock disagreed, "Not _me."_

"You say that now…but you're just a _child."_ Mycroft dismissed, "You won't realize how much you _love_ your life until you feel it slipping away from you and you're helpless to stop it from going…"

"Is that a threat, Mycroft?" Sherlock tested, an eyebrow raised.

"It's a _warning."_ Mycroft clarified, "You know as well as I do where distractions like_ these_ eventually lead. After awhile they're not just distractions _anymore_…they become your entire _life._ And your _death."_

"Death is preferable to boredom." Sherlock stated as he put on his shirt.

"You just need a hobby." Mycroft returned, "Something constructive to focus on…Do you have any more leads on that 'case' you were working on last year? The death of swimmer…I can get it re-opened for you, if you'd like."

"No thank you, Mycroft, I don't need_ your_ help." Sherlock dismissed, "I quit looking into the matter months ago. It got boring."

He picked up one of his shoes from the ground but before he could grab the other one, Mycroft lifted it from the grass and handed it over to him.

"_Shame…"_ Mycroft sighed, "You were much…happier while you were playing detective. You're good at it, you know, much better than the men of Scotland Yard—no insult to them, at all. You've just got a _gift. _You could make an actual career out of the deductions you do. A_ life_…That is, after you've gotten your education, of course."

"Of course." Sherlock repeated, smiling falsely and rolling his eyes, glancing up at Mycroft as he bent to tie his shoes.

"I mean it, Sherlock." Mycroft said, "I really do."

"At least someone appreciates my work, then." Sherlock accepted, "The parents never liked it…but then again, they never liked _me._ I wasn't the perfect son they wanted—and I didn't _pretend_ to be, either. That's why they sent me to live in the city with you. Maybe they thought I would _learn _something…or maybe they just couldn't _tolerate_ me any longer. I'm sorry for that, by the way, _for wasting your time…" _

Now dressed, Sherlock sat back down on the grass, resting his elbows on his knees.

"You shouldn't be." Mycroft countered, "Even someone like me needs a good distraction for my job. Besides, there is a reason why I don't go to visit our parents either."

And he—_Mycroft Holmes_ ((soon to be) _the _British government)—too sat down on the grass, next to his little brother.

"They're just wasting away there…" Sherlock mused, "Sitting in that mansion, doing nothing, just _breathing…"_

"They see inherited wealth as an excuse not to work." Mycroft recounted, "To wile away the days with parties and without _purpose_…They don't care about us—or about _themselves_, even—only about _appearances._ And they don't _understand._ They don't understand the truth about life. That you need something to live for."

"…well then…" Sherlock finally sighed after a moment of silence, "…this has been… _philosophical…_"

"Isn't that what people do when they're high?" Mycroft chuckling, "Have philosophical discussions..."

"…and skip school…" Sherlock added, also chuckling.

"You do know you're going to get a sunburn, right..." Mycroft informed.

* * *

><p>The mess had been cleaned up.<p>

Again.

Once Jim had _magically _got himself declared 'sane' by the expert psychological evaluator (the overworked yet optimistic counselor that had to deal with all the 'troubled teens' to establish herself in the profession so that one day she could open a private practice_),_ those records magically _disappeared._

There was no police report, no newspaper article, no footage or photographs detailing the _truth_ about the small, controlled and _completely accidental_ fire that had occurred on the school campus the night of the candlelight vigil mourning the death _(tragic accident)_ of Carl Powers.

And there was no police report, no newspaper article, no_ scandal _regarding the _third_ school Jim had been politely (and quietly) asked to un-enroll from (been kicked out of) due to a consensual—but c_oercive_ (with _Jim_ being the one doing all the coercing (not that the_ school_ knew that))—affair with a teacher.

James had made sure of it.

(He had _people_ for that, after all.)

"You do have a way with words, Jim." James admitted, sipping his coffee as he read the newspaper.

Sitting across the table from him was his younger brother, Jim, who was now living with him again (which he was _definitely_ not annoyed about at all).

James didn't let sixteen year old 'little Jimmy' drink coffee.

Although James always had an interest in science, there were just some experiments he_ did_ _not_ want to see attempted.

He feared what the caffeine would do to Jim and what it would help him to do.

"I'm a liar." Jim grinned, "And I learned from the best."

James rolled his eyes, turning the page of the newspaper to cover his face.

When he set it down on the table he could see Jim's face again and Jim was still grinning at him.

"Aren't you _proud _of me, brother?" Jim asked, smile falling and eyes widening to mock innocence.

He was sitting in the chair, clutching his feet and rocking back and forth playfully (but _not_ absentmindedly—Jim knew_ exactly _what he was doing…and so did _James._ Jim was trying to remind him of their mother. James wasn't going to take the bait).

James was careful and very thankful, very thankful that his chairs and table were metal folding chairs and table.

Every house, every apartment, every flat he occupied was always temporary, he could leave quickly (if he ever needed to).

Everything was cheap and easy to dispose of.

But none of it was flammable.

(Which took the light out of Jim's dark eyes and the fun out of his newfound hobby.)

"_No,_ I'm_ not _proud—and _you _shouldn't be either." He stated, "You have to learn, little brother, that you can't just _talk _your way out of all your problems. Problems start with actions, not words, and so they must be ended in the same way they're started."

"Oh, yes 'actions speak louder than words'..." Jim troped, "I've heard that one. So tell me _why_, James, is the pen 'mightier than the sword'?"

Jim smiled and stopped moving, looking across the table at James expectantly.

"I don't know what to do with you sometimes…" James sighed.

"Yes you do." Jim countered, "And so do I. You just don't _want_ to do it…you_ can't_ do it. _You can't kill me."_

"And _why _would I want to kill you?"

"You'd _don't._ Didn't you hear what I just said? You_ don't_ want to kill me and so you _can't. _But _why_ is that, brother?Why can't you kill me—I mean, it's not like you've got to do it yourself. I know you've got people for that. They can make itquickand they can make it _clean_…no _mess _and you won't have to clean up after me ever again…It would be _perfect,_ wouldn't it? So why not, James, _why not?" _

And Jim started at James as if he had just _won._

But James just shook his head, chuckling.

"_Because I love you_, dear brother." He sneered sweetly, "I've never denied that, _annoyance_ though it may be."

Willingly admit an ugly truth and people will assume it's a lie.

James knew this.

Jim _should_ have known this.

But he didn't (at least not in _this _particular situation).

And so he_ lost_ (at least in _this _particular situation).

…_for now. _

"You love me? Ah, how lovely." Jim replied, flatly, sinking into his chair, "I love me too."

"Now if that were true," James countered, "you wouldn't be throwing your life away like this. You're smart, Jim…but you're wasting yourself."

"You're _right."_ Jim agreed, "I_ am_ wasting myself. I'm wasting my time, sitting here where you've_ trapped_ me, all day, everyday, doing nothing…_just like you. _What's the point of amassing wealth and power? It's boring. Life's too short to waste on such stupid, repetitive games with rules chaining you so tight you can't _breathe._ And it's all for nothing once you die…So I don't bother with all that. I just try to have my fun where I can, while I can."

"And what if one day your 'fun' gets you killed?" James inquired, eyebrow raised.

"Then it was fun while it lasted." Jim declared, "And I'd die happy."

"You say that now….but you're just a _child."_ James laughed bitterly, shaking his head, "You know _nothing."_

"I 'know nothing'? _Really?"_ Jim inquired, eyebrow raised, "…I know what happened to father and mother."

He'd tossed the words out of his mouth lightly, off-handedly.

And with true aim they pierced their target perfectly.

James was glad he hadn't had been drinking any of his coffee at the moment for he might have choked on it.

He set the mug down on the table.

"Oh?" he tested, tentatively.

"_You_ tried to keep a_ secret_ from me, big brother, I don't _like _that." Jim chastised.

"It was never a secret." James scoffed, "It was all over the news, what our father did, they even had a little two sentence thing in the back of the paper about our mother."

"You didn't clean that mess up?" Jim asked.

"No need." James shrugged, "We haven't been connected to either of them since we left Ireland. And there's no record of us in that country."

"Burned the paper trail?" Jim chuckled, "But still couldn't change our names and just. That would've been so _easy_…and yet, it was too _hard _for you. You can't change your name and you can't kill me. You're so sentimental, brother, you care too much."

"That's what people do." James acquiesced, with another shrug, "I'm only human."

"And _you _tell _me _I'm 'wasting' myself." Jim groaned, rolling his eyes and leaning back in his chair, "I know you're just pretending. Pretending to care—"

"Like the way you pretend _not_ to?" James returned.

"I _don't."_ Jim insisted, "I _really _don't care. It's not like I _choose_ it—although if caring_ was_ a choice I _would_ choose to _not _care, rather than care. It is a waste of time, after all…"

"You're _right."_ James agreed, "It _is_ a waste of time and it's _not_ a choice. Those are the rules of life. And there_ are_ rules, Jim, even for people like us."

"Oh?" Jim tested, tauntingly.

"_You see,"_ James began, "The difference between _us_ and _them_…is that we allocate our resources a little better. Our minds we focus on more worthy pursuits—_usually—_ than mindless day-to-day social dramas most people _distract_ themselves with, simply because it's _easier. _And our _hearts_…well, people like us don't _have _them and we _just don't care_…until we _do._ Until we find something—_or someone_—that we _do_ care about. _And then_, when people like us care..._oh, do we care._ We _really, really_ care. And we _can't stop." _

"So why then…" Jim asked, "Did you neglect to tell me that our parents are dead?"

"Because I don't care." James answered, "And I didn't think _you _would either."

"Oh, but I _do."_ Jim disagreed, "…and I'm _happy._ I _feel_ happy…Good old dad lived his life a shadow. _A_ _nobody._ No one even knew his name…_overall,_ it was a worthless, boring existence our father had…but at least he 'went out with a bang' instead of withering away, wasting his time doing nothing. I'm proud of him…and of mum, too."

"…But do you _why_ they did it?" James inquired.

"Because they finally got it?" Jim guessed.

"Oh, they've always 'got it'." James corrected, "They've always understood…but do _you?_ Do you know the _other _rule?"

"_'Rules are made to be broken'_…" Jim said, because he had to say _something._

And they both knew that then he was _losing. _

"The other rule to life is that you need something to live for." James stated, "Father had his 'war'…and mother had father. When both of those were _gone,_ they had no reason to stay alive. Because what you live for, is also what you die for."

"And what do _you_ live for, then, _dear brother?"_ Jim smirked.

"For order." James said, "To put all the pieces in their proper places. To clean up messes and admire the shine. It's a difficult, never-ending job, and you may find it boring…but, to me, there's just _something _about fixing things that makes me _happy…._ More happy, I think, than even breaking things makes you."

Jim laughed at that, shaking his head.

"I don't live for 'breaking things'. That's just a distraction to keep me from getting bored, it's not a _purpose_…I don't live for anything—except _myself." _

_(…And a boy.)_

(A boy with blue eyes he'd seen in the reflection of a mirror once and had no idea the name of.)

* * *

><p>"Proud of yourself, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded.<p>

There was no 'perfect' time to start a conversation (argument) about this and so Sherlock decided that breakfast, just before Mycroft went off to work (and he was _supposed _to go off to school) would do just fine.

Mycroft lowered the newspaper he was reading to eye Sherlock questioningly from across the wooden table.

He could tell that this wasn't going to be a pleasant chat.

"…What are you talking about?" he asked, carefully.

"Don't play dumb." Sherlock snapped, "it doesn't suit you and I'm not stupid enough to believe it."

"Sherlock—" Mycroft attempted.

"You know _exactly_ what I'm talking about." Sherlock interrupted.

He stood, leaning across the table to smack paper down out of Mycroft's grasp and onto the table.

The two half-empty teacups also on the table shook, but didn't spill.

Sherlock's eyes gestured at the article on the open newspaper page.

Mycroft glanced down at it and then back up at Sherlock who glared at him expectantly.

"You know I had nothing to with the death—" he started.

"The _murder."_ Sherlock corrected, sitting back into his cushioned chair.

Mycroft sighed.

"You know I had nothing to do with the 'murder' of your friend—" he restarted.

"He wasn't my friend." Sherlock said, "Victor wasn't my friend. He was just…"

"It doesn't matter what you called him." Mycroft dismissed, "It's obvious that you…_cared_ for Victor. And caring is—"

"'Caring is not an advantage'." Sherlock finished, "I know that. You've told me that hundreds of times—"

"Then it's time you start _listening."_ Mycroft declared, "You hear, but you don't _listen._ I try to teach you, but you don't _learn._ You _never_ learn. And the _only reason_ you're accusing me of this—"

"The reason I'm accusing you of this is because I know you did it!" Sherlock exclaimed, _"I know_ you had Victor killed. I can't _prove_ it, but I know it."

"You know _nothing."_ Mycroft stated, evenly as possible.

He was angry, _yes,_ but he wasn't going to have an outburst like his little brother was.

Still, he had to _forgive _Sherlock for this.

The boy was only sixteen and although he was _smart,_ he'd had little experience dealing with emotions.

And emotions had that _illogical _power to defeat logic.

There was no reason why they should be able to do it and still they did.

"I know you had Victor killed." Sherlock insisted, anger subsiding to a low boil that bubbled beneath the surface (but still burned hot).

"…Why would I want to have your only friend killed?" Mycroft inquired, leaning back in his chair.

"Because he sold me drugs." Sherlock answered, plainly, "Simple as that."

"Victor was a drug dealer…and that earned him a death sentence?" Mycroft scoffed, "You may have failed your Government class, Sherlock, but I know you don't believe Great Britain is a police state."

"Victor wasn't_ 'a'_ drug dealer," Sherlock rephrased, "He was _my_ drug dealer. And that's why he had to die."

"I wouldn't have anyone executed for selling illegal substances." Mycroft said, "Even to you. I don't have that kind of authority, anyway, officially or otherwise. Do you know how I dealt with your last drug dealer? I didn't have him _killed._ I _paid_ him. I paid him never to sell you again. And he never _did_ and so our 'business' was concluded and nobody 'had to _die'." _

"I know that." Sherlock told him, a bitter smirk and a teacup brought to his lips, "And that's why I chose Victor. He didn't want _money._ Yours or _mine_…he wanted _me._ And so you wouldn't have been able to pay _him_ off to stop selling to me...which you, no doubt, tried to do and when he _refused,_ you had him killed."

"_For the last time—" _Mycroft almost shouted, quickly calming himself, "I did _not _have your friend murdered."

"I know you did." Sherlock replied, coolly, taking a sip of tea.

"Think about this rationally." Mycroft reasoned, "If I was to have somebody killed…it would never be so _messy." _

"Normally _no,_ you _wouldn't."_ Sherlock agreed, "But this is a _special '_case'. You _knew _I'd be looking into this. And so you disguised it as something you'd _never _be involved with. You brought in the _extras_, had them all killed as well, and everyone s_odomized_ and then had the walls of that motel room_ painted_ with their blood…"

"I didn't—"

"No, really. It was brilliant show, Mycroft. You should be proud of yourself. It was _almost_ perfect. But do you know what your _mistake _was?"

"Sher—"

"You had everyone in there high. Far past normal recreational use—which was fine for all the extras. They were all just _junkies,_ I assume. Just like that poor, _stupid _addict you set up to get arrested for this."

"I—"

"…But_ Victor_…Victor was a _judge's_ son. _And Victor wasn't a user._ He _sold _but he didn't _use._ Except when _I _was there. And_ I_ wasn't there that night. _Yet still,_ they found an excessive amount of stimulant in his system during the autopsy…_why do you think that is, Mycroft?" _

Sherlock set down the cup onto the table sharply.

Mycroft had never seen Sherlock this emotional before.

There were almost (…_almost_…) tears in his eyes, angry like hurricanes.

But Sherlock's face was expressionless and calm as the eye of a storm.

"…I'm sorry, Sherlock…" Mycroft sighed.

He knew there was no reasoning with Sherlock.

(He knew there was no reasoning with emotion.)

When tragedy struck it wasn't _allowed_ to be random.

_Someone_ had to take the blame—someone _easily accessible.  
><em>

(Someone like Mycroft Holmes, minor government official.)

"Is that an admission of guilt?" Sherlock questioned.

He was _angry_ and he was _sad._

But if he couldn't be _happy…_

…he still wanted to be _right._

"No." Mycroft answered, "But still, I _am_ sorry."

"_Bullshit."_ Sherlock muttered.

He stood up from the table, chair screeching across the wood floors as he did.

Swiftly, he strode out of the room not looking back a Mycroft once.

"After you've thought about this logically you'll realize that I had nothing to do with this." Mycroft stated, also standing turning to watch him go, "After you've drained your mind of the sentiments clouding it—"

And Mycroft's words were cut off by the slam of the townhouse's front door Sherlock had just exited from.

Those words being the last he'd say to Sherlock for years afterwards and the back of Sherlock's school uniform being the last he'd see of him.

For years it would be only photographs and unanswered calls.

* * *

><p>"<em>You<em> tried to keep a_ secret_ from me, big brother, I don't _like _that."

James stopped himself from cringing when he heard the sick, sing-song voice of his younger brother.

He also stopped himself from walking, turning around to se who he knew would be standing there behind him.

Jim was leaning against the brick wall of a building in the 'bad' part of the city.

It was dark.

The sparse streetlight and the full moonlight was not enough to illuminate whatever was making Jim's pajamas so wet.

It was, however, enough to spark a glint in his eyes.

"_Found you, _James." Jim smirked, starting towards his brother.

"I was looking everywhere for you!" James growled, careful not to shout.

There was no one else _visible_ on the street, but that didn't mean there weren't eyes watching and ears listing.

"Looks like I've made it easier for you, then…"

"You make it _anything _but 'easy' for me, _little brother_, you know that."

Jim rolled his eyes.

"I wasn't hiding." He shrugged, "But_ you_ were. _You _were hiding. Hiding something from _me…"_

"I'm not obligated to tell you everything." James countered, "There are some things you're better off _not_ knowing, for your own good…as well as _others."_

"Lying to me only makes it worse." Jim chirped, "….and why would you want to protect 'others' anyway?"

"To protect you." James stated.

"I'm not the one in danger, James." Jim snorted.

"Oh, but I think you _are—"_

"_You know_ who the one is danger is. If you knew to look for me here, _you know…_So go on, say it. Say the name you never told me._"_

"I believe 'Victor' was his name, wasn't it? Or was it 'Vincent'? The drug dealer, whatever his name is—or _was._ You know who I mean—"

"And_ you_ know who_ I_ mean!"

James raised an eyebrow.

Jim rolled his eyes.

"Oh don't play dumb, you've always been _terrible_ at acting…" he groaned, "You know who I mean. And _I _know his name. I finally, finally _know his name." _

"And who's name would that be?" James inquired.

"Why Vicky's favorite client, of course." Jim smiled, "…_Sherlock Holmes."_

(Jim loved the name. The _uniqueness_ of it. The way it sounded. The way it felt to finally say it himself_, out loud._ It was unfair that Sherlock didn't know his name—_except he did. _But he didn't know _Jim…) _

"I don't know who—" James began.

"Yes. you. _do."_ Jim interrupted, "You tutored him in math, _remember?"_

"You know better than to follow me." James snapped, "I told you not to leave the flat."

"There was a fire alarm," Jim explained, "I had to. The building got evacuated. So I took a walk. A long walk. It was a nice day…"

James sighed.

"And during the course of this 'long walk'," he guessed, "you 'just happened' to find me, follow me, and—"

"See my reflection in the window of a house in one of the 'good' neighborhoods," Jim confirmed, "taking math lessons from my older brother? _Yes._ I _did."_

"And _how,_ exactly," James asked, "did all this culminate in the _crime scene_ I just passed by no more than four blocks from here?...and more importantly, _why?" _

"Well, it's a long story…" Jim started, taking a deep breath.

"No stories, Jim." James warned, "I want the _truth."_

"Why?" Jim questioned, "Why do you want the truth? Why do people always want the 'truth'? Does knowing ever _change_ anything?"

"Truth isn't as powerless as you think." James reminded, "If you confess your crime to the police, then justice can be done and you'll go to prison…"

"Yeah and if I confess my sins to a priest, then all will be forgiven and I'll go to heaven." Jim added, "Plus, the priest can't tell anybody, either so our _little secret_ will be kept _safe—"_

"'Our little secret'?" James repeated.

"Yes, _'our'." _Jim confirmed, "…unless, of course, you tell the police _everything._ But then you'd probably go to jail, _too_, so there'd be no reason for you to get rid of me that way…"

"I'm not telling anyone anything." James stated, "…and neither are you."

"Oh, I'll _never_ tell." Jim promised, grinning, "I don't speak…I _act." _

"I know, I know…" James acknowledged, defeated, "But you can't do it _here_ any longer."

"Where, then?" Jim chuckled, "…In hell?"

"I mean it, Jim." James responded, seriously, "I can't allow you to continue on the way you have been. _Here._ In _this_ city."

"Why? Afraid one day I might burn it down…?"

"_Yes." _

Jim laughed.

James sighed.

"Oh, brother how I love you…" Jim smiled.

Arms wide open, he approached James to give him a hug.

A_ hug. _

James stepped backwards.

He looked Jim up and down; the crazy look on his face and his soaked clothing.

"Don't—" he said.

"It's only water." Jim dismissed, "I took a shower with my clothes on…afterwards…"

And it _was_ only water, too.

James felt it when Jim forced him into the 'brotherly' embrace (knowing full well James never let_ anyone_ touch him).

He pushed him off.

"I'm sending you away." James told Jim, "I know I can't stop you from…doing what you do. But I _can_ make sure you don't do it in London."

"Where?" Jim asked again.

"Well, where do you want to—"

"Ireland."

"No."

"Aww, you're no fun…"

"You know that neither of us can go back there. Ever…So Ireland, England and anywhere else in Europe, the commonwealth—or the United States—is out of the question."

Jim grinned.

"Oh I see." He realized, "You want to ship me off to the third world…"

"Or the developing." James shrugged, "Your choice, really—within reason, of course."

"…Hmmm…" Jim considered, thinking for a few moments before he spoke, "…how about Dubai?"

"Alright." James accepted, "And you'll be changing countries again, each time you make a _mess."_

"Good, I've always wanted to travel…" Jim agreed, "…but don't think that means I won't be back here in London someday…back for _Sherlock Holmes…"_

* * *

><p>Water doesn't have that weakness.<p>

Water doesn't need to breathe.

Water lives forever.

Fire doesn't.

Water can_ kill_ Fire.

But_ Fire_ can't kill _Water._

_And so it was never really a fair fight to begin with…_

* * *

><p><strong>And sorry for no Molly, also! <strong>

**She'll be back next chapter...back for Jim Moriarty...  
><strong>

**lol.  
><strong>

**I crack myself up sometimes.  
><strong>

**(And_ only_ myself lol.)  
><strong>

**And yeah, people actually used to use 'Stayin Alive' as the metronome for CPR.  
><strong>

**There is really no other reason for Jim to like the song other than the one I wrote.  
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**...unless it's a plot device.  
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**What happened the first time the song played on Sherlock?  
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**Jim and Sherlock _both_ stayed alive.  
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**And then what happened the next time...?  
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**lol.  
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**Yeah, so I'm sure you all know this by now but since people have been worrying in their reviews...****  
><strong>

**...I'll quote my ever-so popular president, Barack Obama!  
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**"Let  
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**Me  
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**Be  
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**Clear"  
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**Jim Moriarty is_ not_ going to die...at least not in my story (or the sequel).  
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**lol.  
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**Sometimes I crack myself up.  
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**(And_ only_ myself lol.)  
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**And you'll love how I save Jim's life.  
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**It just cracks me up...  
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	40. Staying Alive

**Last chapter everyone!**

**Happy and sad at the same time!**

**Sequel is out now! 'The Moon and the Suns' (why? because it has the same initials.)**

**And THANK YOU SO MUCH to all who have read and reviewed over the course of this story.  
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**All of you have given me something to do and something to look forward to.  
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**Without your praise and motivation, this story never would have been completed and I would have probably been...sleeping, just sleeping...****  
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**I'm glad I have something to live for.  
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**Thanks you all, again! ****  
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* * *

><p>The first thing Jim saw when he awoke was Molly.<p>

She was sitting on the edge of her bed watching him, wearing her pink bathrobe, hair still wet (but almost dry—the shower had been _at least_ thirty minutes ago).

_When had she gotten up?_

…and how long had she been _staring_ at him?

Normally, Jim would wake up before Molly and if she'd wake up before him, he'd wake up as soon as she tried to move without waking him.

But this time, here Molly was sitting there and staring at him.

Jim blinked and sat up.

"…Good morning!" Molly greeted with (exaggerated) cheer.

She was grinning at him, her smile more awkward and nervous than usual.

Something was definitely up.

…oh _god._

Yes 'it' _was._

"I know how to make this morning a good one." Jim smirked, "…that is, if you don't mind being a little late to work."

"I'm not going to work today." Molly stated, "Morgue's still closed apparently."

"Well then—" Jim began but suddenly stopped.

He'd glanced over at the digital clock on the nightstand.

10: 27

…_shit._

It was almost ten-thirty in the morning.

He was _supposed _to have met Sherlock on the roof of the hospital _hours_ ago!

Jim jumped up and out of bed.

"Why didn't you wake me up!" Jim demanded, pointing an accusing finger at Molly, "Now I'm already late!"

"I'm sorry—I didn't know!" Molly stammered, also jumping up and waving her hands in defense.

She tried to go over to him (as if she'd actually be able to calm him down), but he pushed past her, running out of her bedroom into the bathroom.

"I've got to get ready!" he shouted back to her as he ran, "Make me coffee and find me something tolerable to eat. Don't try to cook. I don't have time to put out another kitchen fire."

With that, the bathroom door slammed shut.

Molly flinched at the sound and stood there for a few seconds.

"_Now, Molly!"_ the muffled voice of Jim added from inside.

And then Molly heard the shower turn on.

She hurried out of her room to make coffee and _not_ try to cook.

Jim would have to make due with cold cereal then, Molly decided.

* * *

><p>"Where were you?" Moran demanded, voice sharp but low, as soon as Jim ran through the doors.<p>

Jim had come in the back doors of the St. Bartholomew's using the keycard that still worked even though security _must _have known by now that the employee 'James Moriarty' (who hadn't even bothered to use a fake name—much to another user of that name's anger) was a dangerous criminal.

(Convenient? _How._ Suspicious? _Yes.) _

"Getting ready." Jim said.

"All this time?" Moran inquired skeptically, raising an eyebrow.

"You think I get up out of bed looking this good?" Jim scoffed, smoothing his hair with one hand and his suit with the other, "I'm flattered, Sebastian, really I—"

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are already here." Moran interrupted _(not_ rolling his eyes), "They have been for that past twelve hours…and so have _I."_

'Here' meant the hospital.

Sherlock and John were upstairs in one of the labs; Sherlock waiting, John sleeping.

Moran had been patrolling the halls, searching for any sign that things might not go according to plan while he waited for Jim to arrive.

Now they were in a stairwell normally reserved for evacuations (_in fact,_ the fire alarm _should_ have sounded just as soon as the doors to said stairwell were opened…but, for some reason, they _didn't.) _ and lacking security cameras.

Moran had been sitting 'in meditation' (bored) on the bottom steps but had jumped up as soon as he'd seen Jim.

"How _sweet,_ the three of you had a little _sleepover."_ Jim commented.

"You were supposed to do this last night." Moran reminded, "No witnesses."

"What part of 'putting on a_ show' _do you and your employer not _understand?" _Jim cackled, "The world's my stage and the sun's my spotlight. I need an_ audience_ for this. We have to do it during the day."

"Fine." Moran accepted, "…Everyone's in place."

"Not _everyone."_ Jim corrected, "The good doctor's still in the way. _Move him." _

"My employer has someone waiting to make the call." Moran informed, "We won't be able to distract Watson for long so we had to wait until _you_ got here."

"Okay, so I'm running a bit late." Jim admitted, "I get it. Now _you,_ get to it."

"After you." Moran obliged, evenly.

He stepped to the side, letting Jim pass and start up the stairs.

Watching Jim run (which he wouldn't be doing for long), Moran couldn't help but laugh (internally, of course).

He'd been up and down those stairs multiple times while he waited for Jim to show up to his own 'party'.

He didn't think Jim realized that there were dozens of floors to go before he reached the roof.

And 172 stairs.

* * *

><p>It was <em>his<em> fault, really, the fire…

They'd been sitting at the kitchen counter, patiently waiting for the ('tasteless', 'classless' (—as Jim had called it)) frozen food to heat up in the oven (which technically wasn't even _'cooking'_)…

…and then they _weren't._

_Jim_ had started it.

(His fault. His fault. His fault.)

And it was only when they smelled the smoke that Jim had finally decided it was a good idea to _stop. _

Shirt partially unbuttoned, Molly had rushed to turn off the oven, opening it to get a face full coughing and stinging eyes.

Jim had chastised her for being such a 'careless', 'terrible' cook (because this had definitely_ never_ happened to him before. _ever._) then sending her out to pick something up to eat 'without dropping it'.

That, of course, had been _funny _(to put it politely) because only moments before Jim had been_ complimenting_ her.

They'd been sitting at the kitchen counter, patiently waiting for the ('tasteless', 'classless' (—as Jim had called it)) frozen food to heat up in the oven (which technically wasn't even _'cooking'_) when Jim decided to ask Molly something.

"Whyhaven't you given up?" He asked.

"…what…do you mean…?" Molly had returned, as confused as she was unnerved by the question.

"…Well I would've done it along time ago," Jim shrugged, "if I'd lived a life like yours. So boring, so _hopeless—"_

"It wasn't—"Molly contradicted and then caught herself, "It _isn't_ 'hopeless', Jim."

"I _suppose_ you're right…" Jim conceded, "Hope is, after all, just another delusion of a weak mind…So it's_ your_ choice to have it or not, really. But you're not stupid, Molly. And I'm sure you must've figured out, after all the years of _disappointment _and _loneliness,_ that things weren't going to change—"

"But things_ did_ change." Molly reminded, with a smile, "I met Sherlock Holmes…and then I met _you."_

"And you were thirty-one." Jim chuckled, "I don't know how you lasted that long…"

"…You think I should have…_committed suicide?" _Molly inferred, shocked although she really shouldn't have been.

And what if she _had_ managed to draw up the courage (and desperation) to kill herself?

Molly wondered how long it would take people to find her body…

_(Days? Weeks?...Never?)_

…she wondered which people would grieve for her…

_(Her sister? Her brother?(—probably not) Toby? (yes)…Sherlock?(definitely not.)) _

…and she wondered how much trouble it would cause people.

_(Finding her. Settling her (marginal) estate. Cleaning up the mess….) _

Molly could imagine all that (and so felt bad)—but she _couldn't _imagine actually committing suicide.

She didn't _want_ to.

"It's what I would have done." Jim affirmed.

(Did_ Jim_ want her to? Once he was gone and she had nobody to distract her? Once he was gone and she was alone? Did Jim _want_ her to want to?)

"You act like—like my life was torture!" Molly replied, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, "…it _wasn't._ It wasn't_ perfect_—nobody's is—but it wasn't _terrible_, either—"

"That's exactly my point!" Jim exclaimed, quickly, "It wasn't this…it wasn't that...it wasn't _anything!_ It was nothing. It was boring. It wasn't really living."

"Not everything has to be some kind of extreme." Molly countered, "Sure my life isn't—well, _wasn't_—all that _exciting_…but I don't live for adrenaline like you and Sherlock do."

"…and what _do_ you live for?" Jim questioned.

And he genuinely wanted to know the answer.

So did _Molly._

"…I don't know…" Molly said, "I never really thought about it. My job, maybe, I guess—"

"No." Jim dismissed, "Not that. A job's a job. Just a distraction."

"…Toby?" Molly tried.

"_Distraction."_ Jim dismissed again, "…although, I do admit pet's are the best kind."

Hearing his name, Toby had bounded over from where he'd probably been sleeping in the bathroom sink to jump up onto the counter top.

Jim stroked his fur appreciatively, to prove his point, but it was Molly that the cat wanted (once he realized that Jim didn't have a cat treat for him this time, of course) and he hopped down into her lap.

She clutched the purring Toby closely.

(There wasn't a thing more affectionate or constant in her life than the pet cat who greeted her every time she got home from work and so if this wasn't what she lived for she didn't know _what_ she _did.)_

Molly bowed her head to kiss Toby on top of his, and when she looked up Jim was staring at her with dark eyes that were _definitely_ not jealous _at all._

And then he was staring at Toby who was staring back.

"Run along." He told the cat, "The grown-ups are talking."

Toby jumped up and dashed away (to a safe spot under the nearby dining table where he continued to watch the two humans with eyes that flashed green whenever the artificial light hit them (and that were _definitely_ not jealous _at all)_).

Now there were many reasons for obedience (respect, fear, love…) but Molly knew her pet (and Jim) well enough to know which one had been invoked.

And this was the only time she'd seen Jim be anything but doting towards Toby.

"Now where were we?" Jim asked.

Molly quickly looked away from the cat back at him.

"You asked me what I lived for." Molly answered, "But I don't have an answer."

"So you're saying you just _live?"_ Jim rephrased, "God, that's _pitiful._ You're like _animal._ So stupid...You don't know _why_ you're here and you don't even _ask—"_

"But aren't we supposed to make our_ own _reasons to live for? Our _own_ meanings of life? What if there_ is_ no—"

"You do everything because people tell you to. Because you think you have to. You eat, drink; sleep, fuck. You don't even know _why._ You just follow your _instincts—"_

"I follow my _heart._ I do what I think is right. I do what I _want_ to…isn't that what _you_ do, Jim?"

"I live. You just survive. Honestly, I'm disappointed in you, little mouse—"

"Well I'm not sorry."

Suddenly, the argument of interruptions was over.

And Molly had _won._

"If you're disappointed that's _your _problem." She stated, "I live for_ myself_ and I'm _not_ sorry."

"You _what?"_ Jim demanded, "Say that again."

"I live for myself." Molly repeated, stronger each time she said it, "I live for myself and I_ want_ to live and live the way_ I_ think I should live and _I'm not sorry." _

She thought Jim was going to laugh at her again (that is, if he didn't get angry)…but instead he _smiled._

And he really meant it, too.

"_No reason…" _he whispered like it was a magic and dirty secret, then smirking because now he _understood,_ "You live for no reason."

Not even bothering to feel _stupid_ for not finding out sooner _why…_

(Why he hadn't killed her. Why Molly was alive. Why she chose to live. Why she _wanted_ to.)

…Jim stood, immediately close to the distance between him and Molly by kissing her in the same admiring and explorative manner 'Jim from IT' had the very first time their lips had touched.

And he really meant it, too, this time.

And _this,_ this was what Molly, in this moment, _lived for._

* * *

><p>Panting, Jim finally reached the rooftop of the hospital.<p>

(Why hadn't Moran _warned_ him about the number of stairs? There must have been at least a _thousand!) _

And Jim had jogged up _all _of them because he _knew_ Moran would be down there just listening, just _waiting_ for him to give up.

Jim pushed open the door ahead of him, light accosting him as he staggered onto the roof.

Luckily Sherlock wasn't already there waiting for him and so Jim would have _some _time to breathe.

He crossed the concrete to sit down on the ledge.

Jim glanced down at the empty sidewalk below.

_This wasn't good…_

There needed to be people there to_ watch_ when Sherlock inevitably fell to his death.

Jim cursed himself for not telling Kitty the exact date of and location at Sherlock was going to commit suicide.

Then she might have actually been _useful._

He knew she wasn't going to kill herself, herself.

If she was smart enough to have figured out that Richard Brooke was the fraud and not Sherlock Holmes, then she'd be smart enough not to actually go through with what he told her to do while still trying to get a good story out of it.

In a particularly forgiving mood, Jim might have appreciated Kitty…

(For her _what?_ Resourcefulness? Lying ability? Vengefulness? Attempted loyalty? Ambition? Moral ambiguity?)

…however, there was only room for _one_ woman in Jim's… _appreciation location_ (which was actually_ not_ somewhere his in genitals but somewhere in his mind _(heart_)) and so Kitty was _'deleted'._

But_ speaking_ of genitals—no _minds._ Definitely minds…

…_where was Sherlock? _

_Sherlock_ was the one to ask to meet him here and that was _yesterday._

So where_ was he? _

_What_ was_ taking_ so long?

Sherlock was _late._

How _dare_ he be late to his own demise?

Infuriated and offended, Jim pulled out his phone to text Sherlock.

_I'm waiting…_

* * *

><p><em>Of course,<em> Jim only realized after sending Molly out to pick up something 'tolerable' to eat that staying behind at her apartment meant _he_ had to clean up the mess made by the burned 'food' in the oven (which he had never, _ever_ had to do before).

They'd opened all the windows, to air out the smoke and Molly actually hadn't complained about the June 'cold' (that someone might _see_ Jim).

But now that Molly had left, _Jim _was left to pull out charred remains from the wreckage and scrub out the interior of the oven.

(Shouldn't he have had _people_ for that? Shouldn't _Molly _have?..._Oh_ _right._ Poor girl was too _broke_ to afford a maid.)

This wasn't _fair._

The fire had been _her_ fault, really.

This was _her_ home, _her_ frozen food in_ her_ oven, and so it was _her_ responsibility.

Good Samaritan Jim might've been able to realize that they'd been waiting far more than the instruction's forty minutes and out of the kindness of his heart _do something _about that…

…but Molly had been_ distracting_ him.

They'd been sitting at the kitchen counter, patiently waiting for the ('tasteless', 'classless' (—as Jim had called it)) frozen food to heat up in the oven (which technically wasn't even _'cooking'_) when Molly decided to tell Jim something.

"I think Sherlock knows…"she began, almost whispering.

"_What,_ that I'm going to kill him?" Jim snorted, "I should hope so. I've been making it _so very obvious." _

"No," Molly explained, "…I mean about _us. _I think Sherlock knows about us."

" 'us'?" Jim repeated, raising an eyebrow.

Molly ignored that.

She didn't_ care_ what Jim called it_—or even if he gave it any name at all._

That wouldn't change what she, what he, what _they_ had done…

…or what they _had._

Words, _even lies,_ didn't change the fact that Jim Moriarty was _here_ with _her _when he could have been _anywhere else in the world_—including with _Sherlock Holmes._

"He didn't say it out loud or anything but…" Molly continued, "I know he knows. I could see it in his face. He finally figured it out."

"And will this be a_ problem_, Miss Hooper?" Jim asked.

"…_no,_ actually." Molly answered, "Sherlock, he…he didn't care. He said it was 'fine'."

"That's not what I asked." Jim snapped, "I asked if Sherlock 'knowing' would be a problem…_for you." _

Molly took a deep breath.

She had been staring down at the countertop but when, after a long silent moment, she spoke she looked up at Jim.

He was sitting next to her on the other stool, leaning against the counter. Head turned to face her, Jim was gazing at Molly with feigned and teasing disinterest.

"Well…" Molly started, "He won't_ trust_ me again. Sherlock said he'd always trusted me…I don't know if that's_ true_ or not but if he knows now he'll _never_ trust me again. _But that_…but that's _not _a 'problem'…_for me_. I don't care."

"Really?" Jim replied, taken aback, "What if Sherlock decides to be a _tattle-tale?"_

"If Sherlock was going to…um…_do something_ about this," Molly reasoned, "...he would have done it already. And so I don't know _why_ he'd tell me that he knows…and_ then_ tell me that he doesn't care. _Unless…"_

There was a smile tugging at Jim's lips, it was something he was trying to stop.

"You've thought of it, haven't you?" he guessed, leaning slightly towards her, "You don't _want_ to. You don't want to think Sherlock _would_ but you know that he _might." _

"'Might' what…?" Molly questioned.

"Might want to _die,_ darling." Jim finally smiled, "Sherlock Holmes might actually want to die…just like me."

"He _doesn't."_ Molly stated and because (for once) she knew something that Jim _didn't_ know, she added, "…and neither do you."

"You think you know what I want?" Jim laughed, "That's adorable. _Stupid_—but adorable."

"I don't know _everything_…but I do know _this."_ Molly conceded, "…You've put a lot of _work_ into setting Sherlock up. Into _destroying _him. But if you kill himself once he…once he _dies,_ you don't get to watch it all play out."

"Doesn't matter." Jim shrugged, "I know what'll happen—"

"_No you don't."_ Molly corrected, "Not for _sure._ And people like_ you_…like to be sure. They want to know for sure. They _need _to…And to do _that,_ you have to see it for yourself."

Jim chuckled, shaking his head.

"You're right, you know." He admitted, "All of that's _true._ But the thing is…_I just don't care anymore._ And that's why I'm finally killing Sherlock. Because I'm done with him. I'm_ bored_ of him. I could've killed him hundreds of times before, I had chance…but I wasn't finished _playing_ with him yet. Now I _am._ The Game's over. Now I've got nothing to live for. And that's why I'm finally killing myself."

He was so casual about it as if suicide was a normal, logical thing to do.

Molly remembered when Jim used to get so _excited _about Sherlock.

Of all the times she had suspected him of lying, she knew now, _for sure_, that he was telling the truth.

Jim wasn't playing anymore.

He was taking his and Sherlock's deaths (scheduled for tomorrow) very seriously.

It was _not fair,_ actually.

Jim Moriarty sincerely planned to die tomorrow…

…but Sherlock Holmes, his 'equal', did _not._

Molly, of course, didn't want Sherlock to die—but she didn't want _Jim_ to, either.

And it was so like Sherlock, _just so like him,_ to not take 'this' (whatever he and Jim called what they _had)_ seriously.

For it to be just another one of his many _distractions,_ his many _games _while Jim (or Molly) cared so much.

However, Molly couldn't help but think that Jim _deserved_ this.

Deserved to _die._

She wondered if _Sherlock_ knew Jim planned to kill himself once he was sure Sherlock was dead.

(He probably _did._ Sherlock knew everything.)

"You don't have to do this," Molly reminded, as if she was obligated to (which she believed she was).

"Yes, but I want to." Jim returned, "Besides I keep my promises, remember? I promised Sherlock I'd meet him at Bart's tomorrow, so I will. I promised Sherlock I'd kill him, so I will. Simple as that."

"…I'm won't be able to stop you, will I?" Molly guessed.

"No. You won't." Jim confirmed, "…but you won't stop trying, either, will you?"

"No. I won't." Molly confirmed, "You may have given up, Jim…but_ I_ haven't."

* * *

><p>Jim hadn't known before, why someone would continue<em> living<em> when one had nothing to live _for._

And he hadn't_ wanted_ to.

But, still, he had _learned. _

Learned that there was _no reason_ for someone to live other than_ wanting_ to.

And Jim hadn't known before, how to _break_ an already broken girl who was _hopeless_ and only _pretending_ to have hope.

But he had _wanted_ to.

_Really, really_ wanted to.

And yet he_ never_ learned.

…and never _would._

Because, you see, there is no way to do that.

Hope is a _choice—_just like _life._

And there is _no reason_ to live other than _wanting_ to.

Molly Hooper wanted to live.

And Jim would never learn how to break her.

* * *

><p>The bowl of milk and cereal was on the table.<p>

Molly knew Jim would probably have something _smart_ (to put it politely) to say about it and probably say something about _her_ not eating anything, as well.

Her stomach was sick with nervousness and anticipation for what would happen today.

Would everything go according to _plan?_

And_ whose_ plan?

Jim's?

(Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes die happily ever after.)

Sherlock's?

(Jim Moriarty dies and Sherlock Holmes lives happily ever after.)

…_Molly's?_

(Well…it wasn't exactly _happy_…but it didn't involve _dying,_ either.)

"No, no, NO!"

Molly heard a shout from her bedroom and so rushed towards it.

"Jim!" she called, "Are you alright? What happened?"

Now, she was even_ more_ nervous than normal. _Much more. _

She stopped running to stand in the doorway when she was Jim, seated on the edge of her bed, holding his head in his hands.

The shower had been left running in the other room, Jim obviously not bothering to turn it off…

…or bothering to use a towel since he was soaking wet—as was the covers he sat on _and _the carpet which had a trail of water leading from the bathroom to the bedroom and right up to Jim.

"…what's wrong…?" Molly asked, cautiously.

(Had Jim figured it out? Was he having seconds thoughts about his suicide?)

"I don't have anything to wear!" Jim sobbed.

Molly held back a sigh of relief as she stepped towards him.

"Does it really matter what you—"she began, instantly being interrupted.

"_Yes it does!"_ Jim declared, jumping up and towards her so he could shake her by the shoulders, "I'm seeing _Sherlock!_ We're _dying_ today! It's a special occasion! I have to look _good."_

"I thought what you wearing yesterday looked 'good'…" Molly replied.

Jim snorted.

_Of course_ Molly would have liked Richard Brooke's outfit.

(But he couldn't wear the same thing two days in a row! _Besides _he didn't even know where the jeans and sweater _were _at this point. Molly had probably picked them up off the floor (she liked to do 'cleaning up' things like that) but where she would put them afterwards he had no idea.)

"It was tacky," Jim dismissed, "you've still got no taste…"

He turned away from Molly, sprinting over to her closet and tearing out garment after garment of her clothing as he cursed and muttered to himself.

(What was he going to do now? Go to meet Sherlock in _drag?_ Now_ that _would definitely be a 'turn up'.)

"There's nothing to wear!" Jim exclaimed, finally giving up and throwing up his hands towards the ceiling.

"Well, you must have _something…"_ Molly reasoned, "You've been planning this for months—"'

"_Years." _Jim corrected.

"You must have _something _you picked out to wear, then." Molly completed.

"I do!" Jim declared, then adding sadly, "…it's just not _here…" _

And of course, he didn't go on to tell Molly _where_ said outfit was (in Kitty Riley's flat—like the rest of his clothes he had forgotten take with him during his dramatic exit).

"You could go and get it…" Molly suggested.

"I don't have time!" Jim exclaimed.

"Well, then, I guess you can't go today." Molly sighed, "You'll just have to tell Sherlock you can't make it and do this another time—"

"You think I'll just give up that easily?" Jim laughed, "Hiding my clothes won't stop me. I'll just go naked if I have to. I'm sure Sherlock'll enjoy that."

"I didn't hide your clothes!" Molly contested, _"You_ took all of them with you when you _disappeared _from the hotel! All I have is the dry-cleaning I picked up for you that _you_ never came back and got—"

"So you do have my suits!" Jim accused.

"Only a_ few_ of them—"

"Where are they?"

"Here, I'll get them for you."

Molly crossed the room, passing Jim, over to the closet.

From the very back she retrieved two items of clothing wrapped in protective plastic and swaying on their respective hangers.

She held one in each hand up to Jim.

"Choose." She instructed.

Black or blue.

Jim stood there, staring at the suits.

"No..." he refused, pointing to each in turn, "Neither of these'll do. I don't wear black when I see Sherlock and I've already worn that one before."

"You _have _to choose." Molly insisted.

Black or blue.

Blue or black.

"…ugh…_fine…"_ Jim groaned, "This one, then."

He grabbed one of the hangers from Molly, weakly to make his choice seem as reluctant and arbitrary as possible.

"Great!" She smiled (and it was only _partially_ forced).

Jim rolled his eyes, still sulking as he eyed the suit, holding it up to eye level.

Molly watched him.

"A little privacy, please, if you don't mind?" Jim droned, turning to her and giving her the same_ annoyed_ (to put it politely) stare he had just been giving the clothing he had chosen.

"Oh—sorry!" Molly squeaked and then scurried hurriedly out of her own bedroom.

* * *

><p>As Jim waited on the roof for Sherlock to arrive he decided to listen to some music.<p>

There was a song stuck in his head.

A song stuck in his head since he'd seen Carl Powers lying by the side of the pool_ not_ breathing no matter how many times the lifeguard pushed at his chest.

A catchy and_ ironic_ song stuck in his head playing over and over and over again.

No matter how Jim tried he could never get it out.

He could listen to it, he could sing it (or at leas_ try_ to) but the song _just wouldn't die. _

And whenever it ended, it just started up again.

A song on repeat.

Because that was the thing about music, wasn't it?

A song was never_ really_ over.

It was _always_ a round.

And around and around and around it went again and again and again.

Because nature can't stand an unfinished melody.

Music is _immortal._

You can't kill it.

And there was only _one_ way for Jim to get it that song out of his head.

* * *

><p>After dinner and after all that cutesy kissing and cuddling on the couch…<p>

(that Jim knew Molly liked _(liked,_ but knew (thought) that _he_ didn't like and so scared _and_ comforted her because, for whatever reason (either because he was _lying_ to her…or because he _wasn't)_ , he was doing it anyway))

…Molly decided to ask Jim something.

"…Jim, since this is probably going to be…the last time I see you again…is there anything you want to _do_—want _me_ to do for you—_anything at all…?"_

She'd trailed off blushing down at her hands folded in her lap, hoping that he had understood what she meant without her actually having to say it, embarrassedly regretting it and then hoping that he _hadn't._

He _had._

And it was_ funny_—funny, sweet and oh-so _adorable._

Molly had just offered to facilitate any strange sexual fetishes she assumed Jim must have had because it was probably his last night alive (to put it _im_politely).

"Whatever do you mean?" Jim inquired, innocently.

He held the confused, straight face as long as he could before finally dissolving into snickers and shaking his head.

Molly's face was practically _red_ now and still not looking at him.

Turning his body towards her, Jim clutched with one hand Molly by her chin and cheek, and turned her to face him.

And then Jim decided to tell Molly something.

"I was going to kill you, you know, as soon as I got bored…but I never did, _and so_ I never _did._ And if you hadn't distracted me I don't know _how_ I would've survived waiting all this time to finish the Game with Sherlock. You've served your purpose well, as part of my _work—and_ as one of my _hobbies._ Thank you for that, Molly."

Molly gasped (short and controlled—she was getting better at that), resolving, this time, to look him in eyes.

Up next, of course, came the part where Jim told her that he was _so 'sorry'_ but he '_had'_ to kill her now that she'd 'served her purpose' (as he'd (stereotypically) called it) to 'tie up loose ends'.

And then he'd shoot her or strangle her or stab her (or some combination of the three—or, perhaps, something much more creative _(cruel)) _and _laugh_ because it's not like she hadn't known all along who (and what) he was, it's not like she hadn't known better than to trust him—it's just that she hadn't _cared._

_But she wasn't going to cry, she wasn't going to beg…_

"…You-you're welcome." Molly said, "Anytime…"

"_Good."_ Jim smiled, "Because now I'm going to give you _another_ purpose, _another_ reason to live—I know you don't _need _one, obviously, _nobody_ does…but I just thought you'd like something to remember me by…"

"What do you want me to do?" Molly asked.

"I want you to remember me." Jim stated, "Me and Sherlock. After we're _'gone'_, when everybody else doesn't believe we were even _real, _when everybody else has _forgotten_…remember us for what we truly were. Remember us and keep us _alive._ Can you do that, Molly, for me?"

"I can." Molly accepted, nodding.

And she would, too, she'd keep Sherlock and Jim alive.

* * *

><p><em>Really, John?<em> Sherlock wondered to himself in disbelief and disappointment.

John had jumped up and ran off after being told by some mysterious (suspicious) voice on the phone that Mrs. Hudson had (conveniently) been shot.

_Now where do people go when they get shot, again, John? _

The hospital.

And so, _of course,_ John had jumped up and ran off after being told by some mysterious voice on the phone that Mrs. Hudson had been shot…

…right _out of_ and _away from_ the hospital.

Sherlock sighed.

_Oh, John…_

Molly had been _right. _

People really _did_ do 'silly' (stupid) things when they cared.

Sherlock supposed this was for the best.

Now with John out of the way he and Moriarty could finally get their 'Game' over with.

Sherlock had texted Moriarty the night before (over ten hours ago) and so he really wondered what could have been taking the 'consulting criminal' so long (right now he had twelve guesses—none of which he had time to ponder over) to get to their agreed upon meeting place.

He felt his phone buzz and so pulled it out of his pocket.

Of course, the text was from Moriarty. _Obviously._

(Hmm…so John had just left and now Moriarty was here? How convenient.)

_I'm waiting…_

_JM_

Oh, so _Moriarty_ was 'waiting' now, was he?

_Really, Jim?_ Sherlock wondered to himself in disbelief and dismissal.

So Sherlock _hadn't_ been the only one at the hospital _all night,_ just sitting there waiting for his opponent to arrive and Moriarty _had_ been up there on the roof the _whole time_ just _patiently_ waiting for him, too.

_Definitely. _

Sherlock stood up, grabbed his coat and strode out of the lab.

"Watch where you're going." Some guy smoking a cigarette (illegally) in the stairwell grumbled as Sherlock hurried up the steps he sat on.

But Sherlock didn't have time to tell him off as he ran up the stairs (only two more floors up from the one the lab was on—_thank god_ he didn't have to come all the way up from the main floor) while putting on his coat.

Smartphone still in his hand, Sherlock sent the last minute text to make sure everyone was in place for his plan.

They _were._

John had been _right._

Friends really _did _protect people.

_And so_, poor Moriarty.

_Poor, poor Jim. _

He was going to die once he thought Sherlock was dead and he didn't have a friend in the world to protect him.

* * *

><p>After at least an hour and a half of ironing his clothes, and shining his shoes, and styling his hair, and straightening his tie Jim<em> finally<em> decided he was ready to go.

As if it had all been _effortless_ and he had woken up looking so _presentable_ (to put it politely), he stepped out of Molly's bedroom into the hall and stared across the room at her where she and a bowl of cereal sat waiting for him patiently.

Molly stood.

"…Do you want breakfast?" she asked, "I know it's just cereal but—"

"I don't have time." he told her, "Eat it yourself."

And then Jim was already on his way down the hallway towards the front door of her flat.

"Wait!" She called, stumbling as she tried to separate herself from the table and hurry after him.

He stopped, turned around and looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

"What?"

"You're not going to say 'goodbye'?"

Jim laughed.

"It's not like you won't to _see _me again." He snorted, "You'll probably be the one stuck doing do my autopsy—well, _poor Richie's_, at least, driven to suicide by the equally suicidal fraud detective Sherlock Holmes…"

"That's not the same." Molly stated.

"You know, I really don't mind if you, well…_defile_ my dead—"

"Goodbye, Jim."

Molly sighed.

Jim smirked.

"Goodbye, Molly."

The 'last' kiss was nothing special.

(Because if you saved the best for last, then there you were at the very end of things wondering why you didn't do the best _every_ time.)

And with no audience, Jim had no reason to be _dramatic_ about it (the way he had at a certain train station).

No _reason…_

…but when had Jim (or Molly) ever needed one of _those?_

And so maybe the 'last' kiss _was_ a little bit special, after all.

They met somewhere in the middle; Molly going after Jim in the direction he'd gone and Jim turning around and coming back over to her the way he always did.

His head bent down to towards hers, hers leaned up towards his, and then they just _fit._

And for _some_ reason (_or_, perhaps, no reason at all) it was_ too_ perfect, _too _easy, _too_ normal and just too damn _adorable._

It was so right that it was_ wrong_ (—and _not_ the other way around).

That's why it _worked. _

Because it _shouldn't_ have.

This was _Jim Moriarty_, he didn't do this (relationships, females (—at least not as a_ first_ choice)) and this was _Molly Hooper_ and_ she _didn't do this (relationships(—not for lack of _trying,_ though), criminals) _either._

Jim broke away first, to breathe and to prove (to who?) that he could.

Molly opened her eyes to look at him, but his didn't meet hers as Jim's lips instead leaned in to speak into her forehead.

"You're just going to let me go and do this…you're not going to try and _stop_ me?"

He could feel her shake her head as she whispered her response to his neck.

"You told me that people make their own choices in life._ You_ have…and_ I _have."

Jim pulled away, sharply, then eyeing Molly questioningly.

"So you've given up on me, now, then? _So easy?" _

Molly shrugged.

"It's never been easy."

Jim couldn't help but chuckle.

"I should kill you for that, you know." He reminded, talking and watching in a way that gave the word 'kill' a whole new meaning.

"Don't forget your coat." Molly told him.

And he _didn't._

He took it out of the hall closet, put it on (with Molly's unnecessary but much appreciated help), and patted the padded fabric over the gun inside its left pocket.

Jim _would_ have said that he'd see her in 'hell' but he _didn't_ because he didn't want to be a _liar._

So instead he said nothing, turned, opened the door and left.

* * *

><p>And the first thing Jim saw when he awoke was Molly.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>OMG!<strong>

**Finally finished with this!**

**Now on to the sequel.  
><strong>

**And I promise the first chapter of the next story will tell you how Jim survived.  
><strong>

**I'll even tell you if you ask me before I post it (still need to write it...grr...)!  
><strong>

**Hopefully I'll get that up in a few days.  
><strong>

**Final thoughts, if anyone cares:  
><strong>

**This was fun, time consuming and sometimes I want to delete this story from the internet, my mind and everyone else's mind who's ever read it.  
><strong>

**So many things I would have done differently, looking back...  
><strong>

**So many plans I changed along the way, so many that I_ didn't_ and_ should_ _have..._**_**  
><strong>_

**And the sequel...  
><strong>

**...it will be different.  
><strong>

**I'm not sure_ how_ different or how it _will_ be different, but it will.**

**I'm not even sure what I'm going to title it yet, lol!  
><strong>

**Baby steps, then, I'll just take this a day at a time because that's all anyone can really do.  
><strong>

**And when I'm writing, really writing, I can get lost and be happy.  
><strong>

**Does that happen to you when you read?  
><strong>

**When you read _this?_****  
><strong>

**In whatever way I could've made people happy with this story I hope I have. **

**I really hope ya'll liked it :)  
><strong>

**Now on to the sequel...****  
><strong>

**THE MOON AND THE SUNS!  
><strong>

**Go find it on my profile lol.****  
><strong>

**(if you_ want_ to, of course, lol-which I hope you do.)  
><strong>


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